


The boy with the heart on his sleeve

by euphorbic



Series: Tattoo fic and related short works [1]
Category: X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angry!Erik, Anxiety Attacks, Arrogant!Charles, Art Debate, Canon Jewish Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Control Issues, Jewish Food, Kashrut, M/M, Present Tense, Sexual Content, Sister Complex, Slow Burn, Tattoo Process, Tattoos, class conflict
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-23
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2017-12-15 21:36:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 170,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/854311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/euphorbic/pseuds/euphorbic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles loses a high-stakes bet to Raven and is required to get a tattoo. However, when he makes a disparaging remark about the art form, Raven's acerbic mentor, Erik, steps in.</p><p>Or, the one where Erik and Raven are tattoo artists.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The boy with the heart on his sleeve

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rumcity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rumcity/gifts), [mixture](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mixture/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文 available: [把心纹在袖子上的男孩](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3404447) by [euphorbic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/euphorbic/pseuds/euphorbic), [Liuliwuyu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liuliwuyu/pseuds/Liuliwuyu)



> With many thanks to Rumcity who this fic would never have happened without.
> 
> In this fic, Erik is mentioned as helping to develop two styles; photoshop and trash polka. The reality: Xoil Loïc is the French creator of photoshop style. Trash polka was developed jointly by German artists Simone Pfaff and Volko Merschky.

  _The boy with the heart on his sleeve_

 

He sees all kinds of people in his two-person operation. All kinds. Hands down, Raven gets all the flakes. She gets the ones she works with several times in a month to design exactly what they want, who then drop off the face of the earth once they’ve given her the initial deposit of one hundred dollars. They then take her designs to artists that are little more than scratchers. She also ends up with people that want her to work with whatever is currently en vogue and will likely be regretted and lasered off years later.

Caveat: Raven also ends up with the most interesting people on her bench or just hanging out in their small hardwood floor studio and gallery. Professors, housewives, and musicians press their flesh to her bench or just run their jaws. She is the most interesting and vexing apprentice he never wanted to have, but she’s probably the only reason he’s succeeded running his own studio.

In contrast, Erik’s clientele are a curious mixture of rich hipsters, suspected criminals, and devoted international collectors. His attitude is often bad for business; only people that like his hard regard, sarcasm, and no-nonsense approach to his art come to him.

“I’m getting it,” Raven laughs, picking up her cell phone. She has a copy of _Inked_ in front of her, open to an advert for UV ink. “I’m getting it and then I’m going to have you do ‘tramp’ in Helvetica, all caps, across the top of my ass, in the style of a rubber stamp. It will be completely invisible except when I go dancing in tacky bars with black lights.”

“The perfect habitat for a tacky tattoo,” Erik snorts. He’s amused despite himself. He decides it’s as good a time as any to drop a bomb on her. “Once you’ve got the schedule sorted, I want you to finish the planning for your journeyman tattoo.”

Raven spins around on her work stool, frozen in mid-dial. Her pretty mouth is open and working in shock. “Erik. Are you serious?”

He nods, continues reassembling one of his tattoo machines. He has an obsession for tinkering with them. Raven is one of the only people he has ever met that lets him test his modified needles on her. He could test them on pigskin, but he doesn’t like even coming into contact with them. His mother would be proud of that, at least.

“Have you decided placement?” she asks, eyes wide. She drops her phone onto the magazine.

Erik snorts softly as he works. “I have plenty of skin open. Up to you to place it somewhere that will work with the natural lines of bone and muscle. When I’m done here I’ll strip down so you can get a better idea.”

Raven grins and begins to prepare for a snarky comment, when the first floor door to the second floor studio opens. A rain-scented gust comes up the stairs, through their open door, and into the gallery space. Raven’s sitting by the benches, which aren’t visible from the gallery space that doubles as a waiting room, but Erik’s leaning against the cabinet and has a straight view to the longish hallway.

A man comes in behind the breeze which flutters the navy _noren_ in the doorway between the gallery and work area. He isn’t of substantial height. He has the look of recent travel; his smart wool suit is a little rumpled at knees and elbows and there’s a bit of ginger shadow about his jaw. A casually expensive messenger bag is slung across his body. His eyes are bits of sharp blue beneath expressive, neatly groomed eyebrows.

For a moment, Erik thinks he’s the journalist they’re expecting tomorrow for an interview and photoshoot, but the suit is too fitted and he doesn’t really look like an Angel Salvadore. Plus, the shoot will be casual, so the idea is thrown out. If he’s there for a consultation, Erik thinks he wouldn’t mind fitting him in.

A smile comes easily to the man’s lips and eyes. Erik finds himself intrigued; the man has seen his penetrating glower and hasn’t shrunk back in the slightest. He asks in a standard English accent, “Excuse me, is Raven in?”

Raven always gets the flakes, but she gets the most interesting people, too. There’s something about the man that makes Erik feel annoyed that he isn’t there for him.

Erik nods, and turns back to Raven who is preoccupied with her phone. “One of yours.”

Huffing at the interruption, Raven sets her phone and magazine aside, murmuring about the schedule being clear for two more hours. She sighs, sweeps her golden hair from her blue-inked shoulders and heads through the _noren_ that separates the work area from the gallery.

The sudden shriek of delight is unexpected. Erik’s hands are steady though; he doesn’t drop or mishandle the machine. His hands don’t even twitch. His eyes though, narrow as he returns his gaze to the man Raven suddenly attacks.

Raven’s propensity for throwing herself at people is one of the many reasons she has so many clients. It is also how she ends up with all the flakes. But, this man is the only person Erik’s ever seen catch and then swing Raven around in a circle. Their breathless laughter is a curious thing in the stillness of his studio.

“Oh my God,” Raven is exclaiming, her voice shrill with joy. “What are you doing here, Charles? Did you just get off a plane?”

Charles sets Raven down with a laugh. “I’m in town for a genetics conference. And yes, I just arrived. Perfectly astute of you, darling.”

Erik stares at the happy couple. He’s seen pictures of Raven’s boyfriend, so he’s not certain who this man is. She’s mentioned a brother that works as a professor, but her visitor looks nothing at all like her. Erik picks up a bottle of alcohol and starts spraying the machine down.

“You have amazing timing,” she laughs, takes Charles’ hand possessively and gestures to Erik. “Erik was just telling me I’m ready to do my journeyman tattoo!”

The smile never leaves Charles’ eyes. “So you’re Erik. I can’t tell you how pleased I am that you took my sister in under your wing.”

One of Erik’s broad shoulders twitches in a shrug, but he doesn’t say anything. At least the mystery is solved; this is the older brother after all. He sets the machine aside and walks over to the _noren_ -covered door way. He pushes the linen aside to join the two of them despite his inclination to stay away.

Charles removes his hand from Raven’s grip and offers it to Erik, seeming unperturbed by the glower, height, and profession that intimidates many. For a moment, Erik stares at the appendage, but then he takes and shakes it once. Firmly. Charles is not put off; his grip is excellent with nothing to prove. “Erik Lehnsherr.”

“Charles Xavier,” Raven’s brother greets.

“ _Professor_ Charles Xavier,” Raven laughs, “Please meet Erik Lehnsherr. He has the steadiest hands in the business; even does pin-striping on the side.”

Charles nods in interest, though Erik doubts he even knows what pin-striping is. “So, then, what is this milestone? This journeyman tattoo?”

Raven grins wildly and runs to the _noren_. “Let me get my tablet and I’ll show you!”

Erik doesn’t want to explain, so he offers, “What kind of coffee do you drink?”

“I don’t?” Charles laughs softly. “Do you have tea?”

Erik continues to stare; he can’t comprehend people that don’t drink coffee. However, he isn’t going to let that get in the way of him escaping the two of them for a few minutes. “Tea, then.”

He turns on one bare foot and heads for his boots and Raven’s colorful umbrella. He shuts the door behind him on the way out. 

* * *

 

Charles is still staring at the door when Raven comes back into the room with her tablet and stylus. She gestures toward the sturdy claw-foot couch against one of the small gallery’s walls. “Where’d Erik go?”

Charles walks over and drops down on one of the plush red cushions. The couch is a nicely refurbished piece with a dark wood frame and firm cushions. He wonders how much of a dent the antique made in the shop’s budget or if Raven or Erik ever nap on it. Raven swiftly joins him, all but sits on top of him. They’ve always been very tactile siblings. “He said something about coffee.”

She raises an eyebrow in interest. “That’s usually my job. Do you want anything to eat? We’ve got a minifridge with some basic groceries. Erik keeps it full of fruit and vegetables. I’m pretty sure there’s hummus in there.”

Charles shakes his head. He’s hungry, but he’s more concerned with Erik’s silent animosity. “He’s… different. Is he always so recalcitrant or did I break some sort of tattoo shop etiquette?”

“Oh,” Raven soothes, “Erik’s got a thing about people and surprises. I’m like his first line of defense. New people frustrate and drain him until he gets used to them.”

“Is he the same with customers?” Charles wonders. He can’t see how anyone can maintain a business with so little in the way of customer service skills. Then again, tattooing has a tough image, so maybe treating people like animate canvases is acceptable.

Raven shakes her head and looks down at her tablet. She wipes the smudges off with the lacy hem of her spaghetti strap top and starts going through her art files. “No, he’s better. He knows what to expect from them. Control issues. He’s very hard to get to know.”

“And he’s letting you do a journeyman tattoo?” Charles asks, trying to turn the subject back to Raven who he hasn’t seen in well over a year. “You must have really improved in the last… What? Two and years?”

“Hell yes, I have,” Raven enthuses. “Erik told me to start designing two or three months ago. Since I’m putting it on him, I’ve had to think a lot about it. I mean, I’d put thought into anyone’s tattoo, but he took me in when nobody else would and he’s helped me grow as an artist this whole time.”

“I tried to take you in,” Charles reminds archly, “but you refused.”

“Right, and where would that have stopped?” She opens the file in question. “The thing is, I may have to tweak it, because I never really decided where to put it on him.”

The file Raven opens is nothing like what Charles has come to expect from tattoos. The image looks like she’s scanned in a watercolor painting. There are layers of color and little to no black work.

There’s a cloudy spiral of mist emanating from a human heart; within the loose end of the tightly coiled mist is the impression of a dragon’s upper body. It has two heads. One head has a broken unicorn horn plunged into an eye and is either screaming or roaring. The other has smoke coming from its nose that mingles with the mist until it is hard to determine where the mist from the heart ends and the smoke begins. He’s left with the impression that either the heart has summoned the dragon or the dragon has summoned the heart.

It’s nothing like Raven’s normal graphic work. It’s gorgeous and intensely intimate. When he looks at the piece, he sees beauty, skill, and something of what she sees in her mentor’s essence. Of course, the first thing he noticed was the man’s beauty: his looks wouldn’t be unusual in fashion or entertainment, but are striking in the bearded landscape of Portland, Oregon. Normally looks are enough to catch Charles’ interest, but Raven’s piece, her impression of him, fleshes him out and reveals him in a way that’s hard for Charles to witness.

“The shape would work best on his chest and upper arm, but that’s a lot of real estate,” Raven sighs, oblivious to Charles’ discomfit. “I have to be careful how much space I take. He’s only thirty-three; there’s plenty of time for him to get more ink.”

Charles can only stare at the work. She’s achieved something strange and beautiful that makes his heart clench. “Raven, this looks nothing like your normal style.”

She nods and leans further into him. “It was something I did when Erik was working. Sometimes, if our clients don’t mind, we burn incense and it kind of inspired the whole thing. Erik relaxes with incense. Maybe because he meditates in the backroom with it before he starts work every morning.”

Pensively, Raven taps the stylus against the tablet. “He may not like this, though. I may have put too much of him into it.”

“Dragons and unicorns are heavy symbolism,” Charles muses, wrapping his arm around her blue shoulders. He doesn’t really want to admit how emotive her vision is, so he looks for another way to critique it. “Are you sure about using them? They’re very cliché.”

“They are heavy and they are cliché,” Raven agrees. “But I don’t think they deserve to be cliché. Why should I deny Erik symbols that work for him, just because millions of people have taken them as talismans or because they’re cool? It would be like not going by Charles because there are millions of Charleses in the world.”

* * *

Erik hears Raven’s shrieks of laughter and her brother’s answering low chuckle as he’s coming up the stairs. He has a paper carrier with four cups, a bag of muffins clutched in his teeth, and is trying to open the studio’s door with the hand clutching Raven’s folded and wet umbrella. He manages after a couple tries and drops the umbrella into the ceramic vase he inherited with the space. The umbrella’s metal tip rings against the bottom like a chime.

He uses the heel of one boot to pull the other off, the second boot heel he secures with his toes. Though he prefers the feel of hardwood paneling to wool he doesn’t remove his socks. Without looking at the siblings on his dumpster-sourced couch, Erik goes straight to the gallery space’s expansive factory windowsill and sets the bag of muffins and carrier of drinks down together.

He sets Raven’s short, two-shot, soy cappuccino on the left, his tall Americano to the right, and Charles’ Assam in the middle. The fourth cup has a little almond milk for the tea, as the coffee shop is vegan. All three muffins are vegan, of course, and allergen-free since he never bothered to ask Raven if Charles has any allergies. Neither he nor Raven are vegan, but they both like the coffee shop’s food and the owners. He and Raven even collaborated on the design for the owners’ wedding band tattoos.

He’s aware Raven is saying something to him, but Erik simply takes the muffins out and flattens the paper bag so he can set them on top. If she’s saying something important, she’ll repeat it. Steam and the scent of coffee rises up toward the ceiling when he removes the lid from his Americano. The steam fogs the window until he picks up the paper cup and places it to his lips. He sips the hot coffee and he stares out at the rain between their window and the next building.

Erik likes rain; it soothes his frequent agitation. It is the meditation of clouds. Sometimes he thinks about moving shop to Seattle, but he’s certain it would cause Raven and her researcher boyfriend problems. Portland’s roughly nine months of drizzle are good enough for now.

“Which one’s mine?” Raven asks as she draws up beside.

“The one with foam,” Erik replies dryly. He points to the smaller cup, “Almond milk for the tea.”

Raven turns around and waves her brother over. When he steps between them, Erik realizes he should have switched the drinks, because now he’s shoulder-to-bicep with a professor. He takes it like a champ.

“Thank you for the tea,” Charles smiles pouring the milk into his cup. “The milk and… the muffin?”

Erik hears the question in his voice and shrugs. “I’m not eating two.”

“Raven was just showing me her updated portfolio,” Charles continues. “I think she may have improved more in the past two years with you than in the years she spent in art school.”

“She’s not the school type,” Erik replies and expounds despite himself. “Art school is a place for the privileged to spend enormous amounts of money to learn to sound intelligent, inflate egos, and expound on the existential crisis of lint caught on daguerreotypes. Raven’s the type to thrive in a realistic work environment where her work is graded by earnings and a growing client base.”

“She already knew how to do those bourgeois things anyway,” Charles chuckles. His smile, though, has an extra edge of humor that indicates a possible hit. Erik’s statement wasn’t designed to inflict harm, but he knew as he said it there would likely be collateral damage.

Charles takes a sip of his tea and turns to Raven to change the subject. “It’s a tragedy you’ve been here two years and I’m only now meeting Erik.”

Raven snorts inelegantly. Erik turns to look at her past Charles. “Right. You hardly talked to me for a year after I dropped out. You only warmed up to any of this after you lost our bet six months ago.”

“Bet?” Erik asks before he can stop himself. He doesn’t really want to know the answer to his question. Next to him Charles shifts uncomfortably and takes a long shielding drink of his tea.

“One year,” Raven smiles and she is only slightly more triumphant than bitter, “without touching my trust fund. If he won, I’d give up tattooing. If I won, he’d get a tattoo.”

“You’re here to get a tattoo,” Erik states, his tonelessness a possible precursor to disgust and, of course, anger. It’s one thing to make bets about permanently marking one’s body, but quite another to threaten a person’s happiness; especially when that somebody is as important to him, and his business, as Raven.

Charles has no idea the fortuitousness of his head shake and soft denial. “No, I’m in Portland for a conference. I’m in this studio to see my sister and to appeal to her good sense. Losing a bet is a terrible reason to get a tattoo.”

“True.” Raven’s bitterness makes an apt reappearance. “Too bad. We’ve talked about this, Charles; you can’t honor only the bets that you win. That’s not how it works.”

Erik turns to look at Raven for a moment. She gives his observation a quizzical look in reply and watches as he steps back to take a closer look at her brother.

Professor Xavier is arrogant, that much is obvious to anyone that looks at him. He has style; the well-cut suit and the rakish mop of his hair say that just as much as the careless adoption of a messenger bag rather than a laptop case. There’s a flair for the old-fashioned, too: his surprisingly broad hands have fingers with writers’ calluses and ink stains that speak of fountain pens.

“It appears you are no stranger to ink, Dr. Xavier.” While the siblings look on in different shades of wonder, Erik takes Charles’ right hand and lifts it before him for closer scrutiny. Overall, his hand is soft, warm where Raven’s is cool, and in keeping with his initial handshake with its strength. Too bad it is attached to an asshole; Erik likes capable hands. “Back when I was nothing more than a scratcher practicing on drunks, I’d get people that lost bets all the time.”

“That’s the sort of life I was hoping to spare her,” Charles replies and though he’s probably trying not to sound like a condescending douche bag, he does anyway.

Raven makes a choking noise and kicks Charles’ leather shoe; it leaves an obvious scuff. There’s no subtlety to her demand that he shut the fuck up.

There’s an audible click from Erik’s sharply cut jaw as his chin juts in an angry sort of amusement. His grip on Charles’ hand turns hard, just shy of painful, and willfully uncomfortable. “Raven doesn’t need anyone to save her, but I’ll spare her the indignity of doing a tattoo for a bet. I’ll do it.”

He releases Charles’ hand and takes his coffee over to the schedule book that sits on the large open space in the railroad tie wall. He picks it up and swivels back to the siblings; holding the book illustratively. “We cleared Friday midafternoon for Sentimental Ink. Go ahead and pencil the professor in for consultation afterwards. Charge my normal rates.”

The concussion of the book hitting the surface echoes fatalistically about the loft space, but Erik’s feet make no noise on the floor as he walks out.

* * *

 

Charles has time to return to his hotel for a nap, a bite to eat, and to freshen up before taking a cab to Portabello Tratoria in Hosford-Abernethy to meet Raven for drinks. Raven frequents the place for the marvelously talented bartender, rather than the dodgy service or vegetarian fare. She says even her acerbic employer goes there just for the drinks.

He’s not sure what to make of Erik other than his immediate attraction to Erik’s physical form. He’s handsome of face, a minimalistic symphony in motion. But while Charles is grateful to him for employing Raven, he’s irritated that Erik has enabled the foolishness of her chosen profession. Fine art is where Charles envisioned Raven, with groundbreaking works in the Whitney and beyond. Places tattooing will never take her.

Despite Erik’s good looks, he’s predisposed not to like Raven’s mentor. So there shouldn’t be a conflict of interests, especially with the way the bastard challenged Charles’ understanding of her. He’s known Raven longer than anyone; Erik’s only known her, what, two years? His presumption is galling.

And yet, something in Raven’s struggling dragon image seems tattooed on the underside of Charles’ eyelids even before her ink has been worked into Erik’s skin. When he closes his eyes in the cab he can still see the dragon through smoke and mist.

When Charles walks in from the light rain, he sees Raven at the bar with her boyfriend, Hank. He studies the young man’s profile and body language on the way over. The light flush on his cheeks from whatever he’s drinking suggests they’ve been here for about half an hour.

Silently, Charles applauds Raven’s guile; she’s obviously been feeding him liquid courage before the coming introduction with her older brother. With both their parents are dead, Charles is the one Hank has to impress. But even if their parents were still alive, Charles would still consider himself the arbiter of Raven’s relationships.

Even from a distance, Charles can see the young man’s thick-framed, black glasses aren’t an attempt at hipsterish irony, but the honest mark of a socially awkward researcher.

Raven sees Charles and pushes back her chair to meet him. She’s not surprised this time, of course, but she’s no less enthusiastic and squeals his name in joy. She runs and throws herself bodily at him. Charles barely has enough time to throw his arms out wide before Raven tackles him. She nearly knocks him down in her enthusiastic embrace.

Stumbling back, arms wrapped around her, Charles laughs and kisses her round cheek, one of the few places on her body that doesn’t carry the mark of her profession. They hold each other, the sides of their heads pressed together in mutual affection.

“I swear,” he murmurs next to her ear, “I will never go so long without seeing you. Not ever again. I’ve been an ass.”

Her lips press firmly against his cheek in return. “You’ve always been an ass, Charles, but don’t you dare. And be nice to Hank or I will have Erik tattoo ‘Pretty Pretty Princess’ on your forehead.”

“Challenge accepted,” he whispers back. He releases her lingeringly, one hand slow to release its hold on her inside elbow.

Hank is smiling nervously at them when they part, but has the social grace to vacate his chair and greet Charles with an outstretched hand. “Hi, I’m Hank. Raven’s told me a lot about you.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Charles grins. He takes Hank’s hand and shakes it firmly. Hank’s grip is soft, but he uses his full hand and isn’t too quick to let go. “I hope you like me better than her employer did.”

Hank flushes a little darker; his smile becomes apologetic. “Oh, yeah, Raven says Erik can be difficult. I haven’t met him yet; she says she’s shielding me until I’m stronger.”

Charles chuckles politely and the three of them move back to the bar, which is crowded, but not unpleasantly so. He notes their drinks: Hank’s locally brewed beer is mostly full and Raven’s cocktail is watery with melted ice.

Raven manages to get the bartender’s attention and order him a rye whiskey. When he makes a face at the order she only laughs. “Charles, you’re in North America, drink some local whiskey, you snob you.”

Appetizers arrive with Charles’ rye; in the interim Charles learns Hank is a post doc at OregonStateUniversity with another PhD dissertation in its final stages. His first doctorate is in physics and his second is in chemical engineering. His education and research are remarkable, but most of the small talk is dry and wholly uninteresting. By Charles’ second drink, he steers Hank into talking about his research and Hank finally, thankfully, has his full attention.

By his third drink, Hank admits quite bashfully that he’s being wooed by several research and development firms, but he’s not sure he wants to leave academia.

Charles can relate. “Even though academia is highly political and competitive, I’ve found many people thrive under those conditions. Personally, I tend to enjoy the petty mind games among my rivals.”

Hank frowns dramatically at the mouth of his bottle. It takes him a moment to reply and when he does he’s clearly nervous, barely making eye contact. “Actually, that’s the one thing I hate about the university. I don’t mind competition, but I’d prefer a friendlier environment. I mean, I like the freedom to research and publish on whatever I want, but in a private lab there’s more solidarity of purpose.”

“In a private lab you lose the impetus to publish,” Charles snorts dismissively, “and that’s the beginning of the slow death of one’s will which only ends in a grave of complacency. Never leave academia, Hank, you’ll regret it.”

“I don’t know about that,” Hank murmurs, staring doggedly at his beer. He picks gently at the bottle’s paper label. “I like publishing; it’s the best way to get dissenting views.”

“Don’t listen to Charles,” Raven smiles and snakes her arm around Hank’s. “He’s never been outside academia, so how could he actually know for certain?”

A bit of the former light returns to Hank’s eyes as he looks at Raven. Charles feels ill witnessing how besotted Hank is.

“So, Hank,” Charles finally says to break the two out of their soul-gazing. “I still haven’t heard how you two met? Raven says it was at a coffee shop.”

“Oh, yes, we did! In Corvallis.” If the light in Hank’s eyes had dimmed before, it positively lights up his face as he touches on the memory. “She was in line right in front of me ordering a double-shot, short cappuccino with whole milk. I was staring at her awkwardly while she ordered. Then, when she went to pay for her coffee, she was a quarter short. So I gave her my quarter.”

A bright peal of laugh rings from Raven, “You did not give me that quarter! You practically threw it at the barista! But then _he_ was exactly a quarter short on _his_ order. It was immediately obvious he fancied me.”

Charles shakes his head at Raven’s grin and Hank’s flush, which is now even darker from embarrassment. “I’ll remember that tactic next time I’m in queue with somebody I fancy.”

Still flushing with embarrassment, Hank slips from his seat. He gestures awkwardly toward the bathrooms, head ducked. “I’ll be right back.”

 Hank’s gait is a little unsteady as he walks away. As soon as he’s out of earshot, which is quickly considering the noise level, Charles turns to Raven with a carefully neutral expression. Raven is staring back, her brown eyes sardonic.

“I can’t wait to hear what you think about Hank,” she drawls.

“I like him,” Charles says, raising one eyebrow. “In fact, I think your union would yield highly superior little human beings. His brains, your wit and beauty; perfect.”

Raven’s chin ducks and she looks at him from under a creased brow. “And now I’m simply _dying_ to hear the caveat.”

“Caveat; please don’t get married,” Charles says, shrugging. “I would hate for my legion of nieces and nephews to inherit that unfortunate anxiety complex of his.”

“Charles,” Raven says quietly, though her face contorts with outrage. “There you go again, channeling Sharon. I thought when she died I wouldn’t have to hear this sort of shit anymore.”

Charles blood runs cold with the comparison but he keeps the anger from his face. His reply is swift as it is calm and cool. “If you’re so opposed to my channeling Sharon, I don’t know why you’d date someone like her. He’s a nice enough chap, but I can’t entrust you to a man that needs to drink in order to face me. You can do better.”

Raven’s eyes widen with incredulity, white showing all around her irises. “The beer was my idea! My god, Charles, he dropped everything and drove all the way up here from Corvallis on no notice whatsoever just to meet you!”

“I didn’t ask him to,” Charles replies nonchalantly. He knows he’s being a dick, but now his pride has gotten involved and there’s very little he won’t sacrifice to that beast.

“He wanted to meet you!” Raven leans forward in challenge. “God, why are you always like this? You know what your problem is? You’re so high up on that fucking horse of yours that you’ve failed to notice it was Dali who painted it.”

“My high horse,” Charles returns, “gives me an excellent view of the horizon. I’m just telling you what I see from up here.”

“You know what?”

“Probably,” Charles deadpans. If Raven leans any closer, Charles thinks they’ll both go cross-eyed in the attempt to maintain eye contact. He can smell her shampoo and feel the puff of her breath on his face.

“I don’t care what you think.”

“Which is why you asked me in the first place.” Charles shakes his head and leans back with his hands up in mock surrender. “You know, let’s be reasonable. I’m only here for a few days and I don’t want to spend all my free time arguing with you.”

“Right, of course you wouldn’t. Because this is about me being irrational, not about you being a patronizing asshole!” For several moments, Raven remains half-standing, bringing menace into his personal space. The tension is palpable, a few patrons even watch them from the sidelines. They make a remarkable pair; Charles in his cardigan and khakis, Raven resplendent in her tank top which shows knots of blue serpent coils on her shoulders.

Finally, Raven shakes her head and subsides, sitting heavily back on her stool. She shakes her head a second time as she drags her purse into her lap and digs around inside. From the depths of her bag she produces a folded piece of paper which she slaps down on the bar next to Charles’ third rye.

“These are Erik’s rates,” she explains. “His going rate is $200 an hour, at a two hour minimum, with the option to buy his original sketch after he’s finished the outline.”

Charles sighs; he welcomes the change of subject, but not to this. He takes the paper and unfolds it. Hank returns as he scans the text. From the corner of his eye, Charles notes the fond squeeze he gives Raven’s hand before sitting down. He chooses to ignore it.

“So you’ll be there tomorrow, after your seminar?” Raven asks, her hand turning up to casually trail her fingertips along the underside of Hank’s wrist.

“It appears so.” He folds the paper and slips it into his back pocket. He wishes he’d never made the bet with Raven, but at least it gave her the impetus she probably needed to be more independent. He wonders how big a two-hour tattoo will be and where the most inconspicuous place to have it is.

“Oh,” Hank says, “are you going to tomorrow’s photo shoot? Raven’s been fretting about it for a week. She thinks Erik’s idea of giving an interesting interview is to be confrontational.”

There’s an understatement if ever Charles has heard one. “He’s not much of talker, either.”

“No, Hank, Charles is coming in afterwards for a consultation with Erik. And, actually,” Raven continues over Hank suddenly choking on his beer, “I have an idea I think the magazine will go for that will save me a lot of Erik-wrangling.”

* * *

It’s dark under Erik’s eyelids; the barest red is the only indication diffused light is coming into the studio’s huge windows. He’s breathing slow and deep through his nose and though they don’t have any incense burning this afternoon, enough has been burned in the space that the room smells of it still. Entwined with the lingering incense scent is the smell of rain on the reclaimed factory’s bricks.

Raven’s hands are cool on Erik’s warm skin; he likes the sensation. There’s always been an underlying animal attraction between them, but it has never developed beyond a physical craving. A craving they consummated one drunken Passover night when he was miserable, she was horny, and both of them were single. It’s never happened since and it never will; their working relationship comes first. Still, he likes the sensation of cool hands on his skin as she swabs alcohol across his right pectoral and shoulder.

When Erik opens his eyes, he can see the magazine’s photographer shooting away, capturing Erik’s serious face and the thoughtful grin on Raven’s. There’s no need to instruct Raven; she knows what she’s doing. He can answer questions and philosophize with the woman writing the story whether his eyes are closed or not.

The magazine is dedicated to the stories behind tattoos rather than the tattoos specifically. All the same, it is de rigeur that all tattoo rags have an artist spotlight and Erik knows the exposure is good for business. She thinks having him shirtless for the photoshoot is good for business. It also might be good for his sex life if the photographer’s enthusiasm is anything to go by.

The journeyman tattoo angle was Raven’s idea. The magazine has never covered a story like this, so after a quick call to the editor, they ditched their original concept and are now focusing on the mentor-student relationship. Erik was bothered by the change at first, but he’s been able to relax into it thanks to Raven.

“So, Erik,” the interviewer, Angel, is asking, “the impact of this piece is pretty big for Raven. She’s already said it is the most important tattoo of her life as an artist and as your friend. What’s the tattoo’s impact on you?”

He wants to shrug, but he’s conscious of the effect that would have on Raven’s sketching. He takes his time to think before making his answer. “In a way, this is a mutual journeyman piece. Raven is stepping over the threshold from apprentice to journeyman in her profession, but I’m doing the same as an instructor. I’ve never apprenticed someone before and I’ve never been an apprentice myself.”

He smirks and the camera’s shutter clicks with abandon. “Also, Raven’s getting prime real estate: after this, my chest and my right arm are almost covered.”

Angel chuckles at the more practical point of view. “Speaking of being covered; when we got here we were surprised that you had no ink showing at all. Why is that?”

“It’s cold,” Erik deadpans.

Raven takes her surgical pen from his shoulder and laughs. “People always ask why Erik wears long sleeve shirts. He’s a private person and so is his personal gallery.”

“Oh, no, this is so perfect, Angel,” the photographer suddenly laughs. He’s taking several shots of the human heart Raven sketched over Erik’s bicep previously.

Angel raises one well-shaped brow. “Okay, what?”

Erik stares straight ahead, past the writer to the unlit incense sticks sitting in their dish on the long cabinet beneath their bookshelves. He thinks he hears the studio door open, but he’s sitting on his rolling stool and can’t see the entryway.

Raven notes Erik’s faraway glance and places her hand on the middle of his chest once more. “What’s perfect?”

“You are,” the photographer smiles warmly, genuinely tickled. He takes several photos of Raven’s hand on Erik’s broad chest. “The future answer to why Mr. Lehnsherr always wears shirts that cover his arms is right there. You’ve put his heart on his sleeve.”

“What?” Raven tilts her head and stares at Erik’s right arm. His forearm is covered with tattoos from wrist to bicep. The tattoo she’s drawing connects the arm work to his upper body, thus completing a sleeve. “Holy shit, I never thought of that. Unintentional brilliance.”

“Brilliance runs in the family.”

All four turn to Raven’s brother who managed to make it in without anyone but Erik the wiser. He had heard the door open, but hadn’t expected Charles so soon; not when Raven made it clear that her brother was often woefully late to his personal engagements.

“Raven,” Erik says dryly, “aren’t you adopted?”

Raven snorts through a comically exaggerated grimace and retracts her pen. “Erik, whoah, down boy.” She turns her face to Charles next, giving him a wink and teasing smile. “Not that you’re wrong.”

Erik watches dispassionately as the two trade conspiratorial smiles. Something about their familiarity irritates him. Everything about Raven’s brother irritates him so far; if he were a decent sort of person, he’d look for traits they share in an attempt to keep the peace, but he’s long since given up the hope of being a decent person.

Angel also turns her attention from Erik to Charles. “So you’re Raven’s brother? Do you have any of her work?”

Amusement returns to Erik as awkwardness floods back and forth between the siblings. He says nothing, content to remain quiet and enjoy the ensuing familial crisis.

Both siblings shake their heads and give each other significant looks. It is clear that each one is communicating something different. Raven is looking at Charles when she shakes her head; definitely signaling Charles to keep his mouth shut on the topic. Charles’ eyes are on Angel, however, and his headshake likely means that she should interpret his answer as an unquotable ‘no’.

Unfortunately, Sentimental Ink is a positive force among countless hipster zines; Angel holds back uncomfortable questions on that topic. “You _are_ Raven’s brother, though, right? She doesn’t have your accent.”

“Oh, yes,” Charles smiles at her. “I spent my formative years in England. Our parents adopted Raven when we came back to America.”

“Do you like her art?” Angel presses, taking a tack that allows Charles to interpret her question in whatever way is most advantageous for him.

Raven gives Charles another warning look, but he simply winks at her before answering Angel. “I’ve always loved Raven’s art. I haven’t always approved of her being a tattooist, but I’ve always loved her art. And this piece she’s doing now, I think, is really indicative of her growth as an artist. It’s very courageous and personal. In fact, it might be my favorite.”

Though his face doesn’t betray his consternation at Charles’ words, there’s something there that Erik immediately latches onto. Courageous? Personal? His first instinct is to scoff, but then Raven’s pen descends again and he turns his attention back to the lines left in its felt-tip wake.

People seldom remark on the personal or sensitive nature of his original concepts. He often executes flawless pieces based on the requests of his clients that garner talk of his eye for detail, his technical prowess, or even his penchant for designing and producing his unique tattoo needles. Those pieces receive emotional reviews, but the pieces he does for collectors are usually wholly his own design and those, while praised across the tattoo world, have never once been referred to as personal or courageous.

More often than not it’s Raven’s work that’s called personal, sensitive even. He used to think it was because people always look at her in light of her gender, but now he wonders. Is the tattoo she’s designed for him courageous of her? Technically, it is her most ambitious design. It will take several layers for her to complete and a steady hand for all the delicate shading. She’ll be at it for multiple hours over many days, depending on how quickly his skin heals.

But courageous? Personal? He doesn’t see it. Two dragons coming out of a heart shrouded in spiraling smoke doesn’t seem personal at all. Courageous, he decides he can grant; dragons are heavy subject matter. They’re so cliché that he never envisioned he would ever wear one. Additionally, it’s a piece that could easily go wrong though she modified it exactingly to work with his musculature before she’d left the night previous.

Erik remains quiet, no doubt nobody find his silence unusual; he’s not a talker. But then Raven’s pressing him back, to roll his stool over to her work bench and he realizes he hasn’t been paying attention at all. Angel and Raven’s brother are chatting away and the Sentimental Ink photographer is changing lenses on his camera.

Raven doesn’t give any indication that he’s zoned out for very long; she gives him his space both figuratively and physically. But one glance at her workspace tells him he zoned out for a minute or so. She has everything assembled, from a box of disposable gloves, to spray bottles of alcohol and hospital grade germicide, to ink cups, and petroleum jelly.

She looks to him for approval after wiping her machine down with alcohol for the third time. He reaches over for a pair of gloves, pulls them on and spritzes his chest, shoulder, and bicep with alcohol then the hospital-grade anti-bacterial spray. He shaved the areas going under her needle before the Sentimental Ink people showed up.

“Okay, boss,” she says, smiling slightly, but with a crease in her brow. “Can I go?”

He looks up, finds it strange to look up when he normally towers over her, and locks his gaze with hers. “Unless you want to wait another three months, I think you should get started.”

“Okay, then,” she breathes. She hooks her ankle around her stool and pulls it close. Once seated she turns the machine on.

The equipment’s sudden whine alerts the photog and the other two, but Raven is fixed on Erik and Erik is fixed on her. “You’re ready for this, Raven.”

The crease in Raven’s brow smoothes. “I promise this will be the best piece I’ve ever done.”

Erik snorts lightly. “I won’t hold you to that. Just don’t fuck it up.”

His snark releases some of her anxiety, enough for her to come back with, “I’m not worried; you usually keep ‘em covered up anyway.”

The first pass is always the cruelest, but Erik knows to expect that. A sheet of pain shrouds his mind once the needles start perforating his skin, stabbing ink underneath the epidermis to the deeper dermis layer. He’s had enough work done to have a rough idea of when the endorphins will kick in and the pain begin to lessen, but he doesn’t bother to hide his initial scowl. He takes his mind from it by watching Raven’s hands as she marks him and wipes away excess ink and blood with the paper towels gripped in her other hand.

“That looks intense,” somebody says above the machine’s buzz. It takes Erik a moment to register that the voice belongs to Raven’s brother. He glances at Charles, ponders a rejoinder, but opts to stay silent and let other people fill him in. Other people will. They like that; like filling the air with meaningless noise. He half wishes Raven was doing the tattoo on his head so he wouldn’t have to listen.

“The first minute or so is pretty painful,” Angel supplies. “Then you adjust to it and it isn’t as bad. Raven’s doing the outline right now, which is the most painful part.”

Charles swallows in clear dismay which makes Erik smile just a bit. He considers playing the pain up a bit, just to fuck with him in preparation for his coming work. In the end he doesn’t, but he doesn’t listen to Angel conducting Tattooing 101, either. He watches Raven work, grits his teeth in pain when the needle rattles over his clavicle, again when it hits different parts of his shoulder joint, and ponders the design once again.

Vaguely, he’s aware of the photog shooting; this time he hasn’t bothered to strike up any conversation. The machine buzzes away and the camera whirs. All backdrop to Erik’s questioning; why is this design personal? What makes a two-headed dragon, one with an eye put out, personal? It isn’t something he and Raven have talked about, though she said it suited him.

Then a wave of chill flows over him; it displaces the pain but is far less welcome. A two-headed dragon could represent two sides of his personality. Since it seems to emanate from the human heart, it is likely something to do with Raven’s perception of his true nature. Erik swallows and stares through the ink, blood, and Vaseline at the sketch. One head is destructive; a unicorn horn, maybe representing truth, is imbedded in that head’s eye. The other head is fierce, it has no blood on its claws, so Erik supposes it must be ready to attack or defend.

Erik has a lot of ink, that isn’t to say he’s covered in tattoos. Most of his work covers his left leg from foot to hip; some of these are his own doing or collaborations with other artists. The ones on his chest and arm are works from artists he respects. None of them are personal imagery as far as he knows; some are abstract, others graphic. His favorites are the collaborations that helped bring photoshop and trash polka onto the scene.

His tattoos say volumes about him as an artist and as a developer of a subculture’s art movement, but they don’t say he’s a man who is constantly struggling with his own nature. They don’t reveal him as a person, but they all necessarily expose him as a violator of Halakha, if not an apostate.

Erik isn’t sure what he’s feeling; when emotions get complicated he’s often at a loss. What he feels, looking at the tattoo taking shape, is something uncomfortable and powerful. Something he doesn’t understand.

“Stop.”

Raven stops. She looks just as surprised as Erik that the word came from his mouth. Erik finds that he has more words where that came from.

“Stop shooting,” he says.

Raven’s face clouds with uncertainty. The photographer puts down his camera and flashes a confused look over at Angel. Erik begins to stand.

“Do you need a break?” Angel asks, watching Erik as he finishes the motion of getting to his feet. Beside her, Raven’s brother looks on, a crease at his brow.

Erik doesn’t look at them directly; just collects the view in his peripheral vision. He takes off the surgical gloves from earlier and discards them appropriately in the haz mat bin, turns and walks into the backroom without a word. In his wake he hears Raven say, “Why don’t you two go get lunch downstairs? I’ll let you know what’s up in a few.”

The backroom is spartanly furnished. It is lit by another of the big factory windows that allows indirect light in from the back alley. The hardwood in the room is scarred and half-covered with a large secondhand Persian rug. Erik likes sitting on it when he meditates. The weave feels good under his feet as he walks across the rug to lean, forehead buffered by his left forearm, against the wall. From the other room he hears low voices, but he doesn’t try to understand what anyone is saying.

He breathes.

Erik remains unmoving when Raven walks in. She joins him, leans back-first against the same wall. She listens to him breathe in through his nose for a few moments before asking, “Hey, what just happened?”

The problem with times like these is that he doesn’t have anyone that can explain things to Raven for him. He can decide against speaking as he usually does, but there’s nobody to make the noises that fill up empty spaces he doesn’t want to. She can, and may, wait him out.

“I don’t know how to explain.” It’s the truth, at least. “Started to feel strange.”

Raven settles a gentle hand on his back. “Did you eat before we started?”

“That’s basic intelligence,” Erik snorts. He hadn’t.

“So you lack basic intelligence?” Erik’s sigh is answer enough to that question, but Raven doesn’t drop the subject. “After we get your blood sugar up, let’s start again. Fifteen minutes on, fifteen off.”

He lifts his head from his forearm just to shake it. “No, we can do the whole outline today and start shading, but I want the shop empty. No bystanders, Raven.”

“But you have to do the consultation with Charles,” Raven protests.

“Obviously we’ll start again after the consultation,” Erik says, turning around so Raven’s hand slips from his back. “That shouldn’t take long.”

“You obviously don’t know my brother.” Raven scoffs. “But okay. What do you want me to tell the magazine people?”

“Tell them something they’ll like,” Erik retorts, anger beginning to creep in to vanquish the feelings he can’t understand. “Tell them the tattoo was too personal or that I felt exposed.”

Raven’s gaze drops to the smears of ink and blood suspended within the Vaseline. She opens her mouth to say something only to change her mind; no words are given breath. Her lips close on silence, but her eyes are full of things he doesn’t really understand. With a brief nod she returns to the studio. He appreciates having his space.


	2. It's nothing personal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You are more than welcome to let me know of any typos in anything I write. I'm notorious for them and I never catch them all, so you'd be doing me a favor.

* * *

_It’s nothing personal_

 

Charles knows he’s screwing up by cutting out early from the opening day of the conference with nothing more than a few promises of catching drinks that evening. However, his prominence in the field will cover the broken expectations of his colleagues and, as he said to Hank the night previous, he’ll enjoy any barbs his rivals sling. He has explained his sister is in town and she is more precious to him than they. And she is, there’s no lie to that, but there’s also the issue of the tattoo he still wants to clear up.

During his cab ride through the latest round of chilly Portland drizzle, Charles tries to think of a plan that will release from the fateful bet they’d made. Over the last six months he and Raven have occasionally talked on the phone, chatted on Skype, or sniped at each other on various social networks. Beyond the text-less email that accompanied the screenshot proving her trust fund’s one-year dormancy, they’ve spoken very little about Charles getting a tattoo. She occasionally asks him what he wants or sends him sketches of her ideas (mostly in the theme of DNA helixes), but Charles never replies to those. He still thinks he has a chance to get out of it.

There is a break in the rain when his cab finally arrives at the reclaimed factory building. Charles is in a good mood with the energy he always gets from meeting brilliant people like himself and bouncing ideas off them. The good timing of the cab in regards to the weather improves his mood even more. Charles pays the driver, tips generously, and dashes across the wet pavement, leaping puddles with a grin. Pulling the bottom level door open, he takes the stairs up to the studio two at a time. He’s early for once and eager to put this whole tattoo business behind him.

The closed sign on the opposite side of the door’s leaded glass window reminds him the people from the tattoo magazine might be there still. The door isn’t locked, so he casually disregards the sign and let’s himself in.

As it did the first time he walked in, the faint smell of incense in the well-lit space strikes him as oddly ascetic. Raven mentioned incense mellowing Erik out, but he hardly sees the man as a religious sort. Austere, perhaps, but not a believer. He loses the thought; there’s somebody unfamiliar speaking with Raven as he comes down the hall to the gallery space, but only catches the last bit about a heart on somebody’s sleeve. Then he hears Raven loud and clear.

“Holy shit, I never thought of that. Unintentional brilliance.”

“Brilliance runs in the family,” Charles interjects by way of introducing himself. He pushes the short, Asian-inspired curtains in the doorway aside and enters the studio space.

A quick glance reveals his sister standing in front of Erik, her hand splayed on the tattooed half of his broad chest. She’s standing over him with a pen as he sits on a rolling Craftsman-branded stool. Erik doesn’t look surprised to see him the way the others do; he looks up from where he’s seated and fixes Charles with a baleful glance.

“Raven,” Erik says dryly, “aren’t you adopted?”

 _Touché_ , Charles thinks. Erik might be a presumptuous, tattooed asshole, but he possesses the sort of cutting wit Charles appreciates.

“Erik, whoah, down boy,” Raven snorts. She gives Charles a familiar teasing wink and smile combination that says she knows he approves of Erik’s dry humor. “Not that you’re wrong.”

“So you’re Raven’s brother? Do you have any of her work?”

The woman speaking to Charles is lovely. He’s not sure if she’s black or Latina with her dark skin and straight black hair. Maybe both? Running down her arms, beneath her blouse’s open sleeves, are delicate black lines; a detailed replica of insect wings from a scientific diagram. Her eyes are a rich brown like the darkest bands of tiger’s eye crystal. He begins to wonder if she’s single, but is diverted back on topic by the sheer awkwardness answering her question poses.

It’s no surprise Raven is giving him a warning look before he’s even opened his mouth. He’s not sure how to answer or, if he did, whether it would be on the record or not, so he turns to the interviewer with his most charming smile and shakes his head. That, at least, is unquotable.

“You _are_ Raven’s brother, though, right? She doesn’t have your accent.”

“Oh, yes,” Charles returns. That, at least is safe territory. “I spent my formative years in England. Our parents adopted Raven when we came back to America.”

“Do you like her art?” the interviewer asks. Charles wants to seize her slim, brown hands and kiss them; this new question is much easier to answer. He can, in fact, answer in such a way that will satisfy all parties present.

Raven expression remains wary. He can’t really blame her, not with the way he’s tried to get her to give up this art form, but he has no intention of sabotaging an interview. Not when he needs her to release him from the bet.

Charles winks at Raven and starts into glowing commentary. “I’ve always loved Raven’s art. I haven’t always approved of her being a tattooist, but I’ve always loved her art. And this piece she’s doing now, I think, is really indicative of her growth as an artist. It’s very courageous and personal. In fact, it might be my favorite.”

From Erik there’s a sudden flicker of interest that’s impossible to read more into and none of the expected snark. Charles notes the reaction and wonders if, perhaps, he’s susceptible to compliments. But then Erik’s eyes glaze over in the arrested glance of those that have just drifted very far away. It’s curious, but Angel is more important.

Chatting comes easily to Charles and, it becomes apparent, Angel as well. Her priorities are clear, though; she keeps them on topic about Raven and gathers details of their background. Raven continues to spare him a few backwards glances as she prepares her work station. The looks eventually become fond, even trusting, even _soft_. Charles’ heart wells up in response; he has missed his little sister trusting in him. So he continues chatting with the lovely Ms. Salvadore and paints the most inspiring portrait of Raven he’s able.

He doesn’t pause when Angel’s dark eyes glance over to Erik and Raven again. He does pause, however, when Erik spritzes his chest and arm with something from a spray bottle. His bare skin is suddenly slick, wet with a sheen of what smells like alcohol. There’s a small, and very inappropriate, jolt between Charles’ heart and his crotch at the sight.

“What is that?” Charles asks, his voice a little rougher around the edges than he intends.

“Alcohol to sterilize his skin,” Angel murmurs, eyes bright with mutual admiration. “Did you get that shot?”

The photographer doesn’t reply; he’s been caught changing lenses. Fortunately, he brings the camera swiftly to bear and starts shooting in time to catch Erik spraying his skin with a second bottle. “Buy me drinks tonight and I promise to share them.”

“I just want to see,” Angel chuckles, “not own.”

Charles has no way of asking to see the pictures without betraying his inappropriate perving on his sister’s mentor. The disappointment spurs him to castigate himself. Coming onto Raven’s mentor would not only infuriate her, it would only add fuel to all the patronizing she does concerning his love life. Plus, there’s no indication Erik likes men. Not that sexual orientation that has stopped Charles from pursuing; the chase is half the fun.

“This is all very medical, isn’t it? It’s more like an operation than an art form.”

“What did you expect,” Angel asks with chiding amusement in her tone. “A tattoo is made by pushing ink under the skin. Skin is the body’s most important defender against germs, so doesn’t it make sense to keep everything sterile when repeatedly perforating it?”

“Of course,” Charles says. “I suppose I’ve been woefully ignorant of many details of Raven’s profession.”

Before Charles can say more the high pitch whine of Raven’s tattoo machine comes on. His attention is diverted from Angel and fixed between his sister and her mentor. The two exchange a few quiet words. Whatever Erik says must be encouraging; Raven’s furrowed brow soon smoothes out and her machine descends to the sketch on Erik’s chest.

An intense scowl crosses Erik’s face as the needles buzz into his skin and the ink begins to flow. The pain fades quickly from his face, but Charles is still a little shaken; after all, Erik is a man with multiple square inches of tattoo coverage. “That looks intense.”

“The first minute or so is pretty painful,” Angel supplies. “Then you adjust to it and it isn’t as bad. Raven’s doing the outline right now which is usually the most painful part.”

He hasn’t been around Erik much, but he seems like the stoic sort that doesn’t give in easily to pain. The notion only makes Charles feel worse about the idea of getting a tattoo himself. He watches Raven work, injecting ink under, and wiping away excess ink and blood off, Erik’s skin. Even when the pain fades from Erik’s face and the faraway look returns, Charles is caught between awkward feelings of admiration, distaste, and… yes, another hint of desire. The last bit makes him doubt his sanity, because he doesn’t feel a strong urge to help Erik, only to wipe the blood away to clear the way for his lips.

Charles swallows reflexively in his discomfort with Erik’s pain and his base attraction to the man feeling it. This is a depth of depravity he’s visiting for the first time. He tries to focus on what Raven is doing, distracting himself occasionally to ask Angel more questions about the process. The strategy works until Raven suddenly stands up straight, taking her tattoo machine’s needle from Erik’s skin.

“Stop shooting.”

And then Raven is backing away from Erik and Erik is standing up from his stool. The photographer lowers his camera and looks to Angel for instructions.

“Do you need a break?” Angel asks, with clear confusion. Having never seen tattooing in process, Charles has no idea what has gone wrong or if Erik’s behavior is strange or not. His expression is as inscrutable as ever.

As usual, Erik doesn’t answer anyone’s questions. He peels the surgical gloves from his hands and throws them into a haz mat-labelled bin before turning around and walking out of the studio, into a back room.

All eyes turn to Raven. She turns off her machine, looking a little lost for words. The expression only has residence on her face for a few seconds before she shrugs and adopts a lopsided grin. She looks at Angel and holds up one finger. “Hey, why don’t you two go get lunch downstairs? I’ll let you know what’s up in a few.”

Without explanation or rush, she sets down her machine and heads to the backroom Erik disappeared into.

Angel calmly gathers her notes and smartphone and begins packing up her black leather bag. The photog seems equally unfazed. He gathers his equipment and stows lenses into their padded cubbies inside his bag. Charles is left with no clues at all concerning what just happened. It couldn’t have been normal, but everyone has taken Erik’s sudden departure in perfect stride. Obviously, he decides, he will learn nothing by taking a note out of Erik’s book by remaining mum.

“What just happened?”

Angel looks up from her bag. “No idea. Erik’s known for keeping his cards close to that fine chest of his. You’d do better asking your sister.”

“So that,” Charles gestures helplessly, his hand rotating loosely at Raven’s abandoned work area, “was not normal?”

“Not for most people, but we see a lot of things,” the photographer comments. “When we interview somebody that has a meaningful tattoo, like a memorial portrait or something, it gets pretty emotional. Crying isn’t unusual.”

“Right,” Angel snorts, “I bet you anything Erik fucking Lehnsherr is _not_ back there crying. Probably ran out of patience with being watched or interviewed or something. Everyone knows he’s got a crazy violent temper.”

At Charles’ sudden alarmed expression, she adds quickly, “Or, at least, he used to. I’m sure Raven can explain all that. Yeah, look at the time, let’s get some of that Portland vegan coffee from the cute boys next door.”

Angel and the photographer are on their way down the stairs before Raven comes out of the backroom. She gives Charles an apologetic smile. “That could have gone better.”

“What happened?”

She snakes her arm around his waist and tugs him toward the gallery space. They knock the noren aside together and head for the big factory window where they shared tea and coffee just the other afternoon. The drizzle has resumed falling from the low-flying clouds beyond the glass. It would be depressing if he wasn’t so used to it

“Erik didn’t eat properly,” Raven sighs and leans into Charles’ chest. Her head is a comforting and grounding weight against his sternum. “Low blood sugar is his official story.”

Charles wraps his arms around her waist, anchoring her to him, and presses a kiss to the side of her head. Her hair smells of the same balsam shampoo it always does. “Do I get to be a party to the unofficial story?”

“Mmm,” she says, muffling her response in his blazer. “I dunno the official story. Well, maybe. Erik’s Jewish, Charles.”

At first the information makes no sense; he can’t see the correlation between tattooing and Jews. He sorts through his mind quickly looking for a connection, something that can bring the two elements together. When he finds it, he frowns in severe dismay. “Did he have relatives in the war?”

“Yes, not much of his family survived the war,” Raven answers, and pulls her face from his chest to settle her sharp chin on his shoulder. “He’s atheist but being Jewish is important to him.”

“Hence the two-headed dragon?” Charles asks. Like it or not, he still can’t exorcise the image haunting his mind. Seeing it being breathed into Erik’s skin in clouds of ink and blood has been surreal so far.

“I guess that’s one aspect to it.” She digs her chin into his shoulder joint in a nod he knows she means to be uncomfortable. Physically, it’s definitely uncomfortable, but emotionally it isn’t because it is a familiar prank from their childhood. “Huh, you weren’t bullshitting Angel. You really do like that design, don’t you?”

“I have never liked clichés,” Charles admits, his quietude serving to make the commentary feel secretive. “But I think you invoked the truth that lies at the heart of the cliché through the honesty of that piece. Maybe Erik felt exposed.”

Raven’s chin stills, but her hands seize Charles’ biceps and withut loosening her grip she shoves away from him with such violence that he feels the thump when her denim-covered ass hits the wall beneath the window sill. Her golden brown eyes are wide, lips parted in shock.

In response, Charles’ hands come up and grip her elbows in concern. The touch is meant to support; he always moves to protect Raven. “What’s wrong?”

She stares at him in shock and in a little wonder, too. Without releasing her grip, she whispers fiercely, “He was trying to sound like he was bullshitting, but he _said_ that.”

Charles winces and grimaces as gently as he can. “Sometimes the best deception is the truth spoken in jest.” 

* * *

 It takes a few minutes of breathing exercises before Erik trusts himself enough to return to the studio. When he does, force of habit brings him straight to Raven’s workstation where he wipes the fresh, yet incomplete, outline down with germicidal soap.

He looks for Raven to get her assistance with wrapping his chest and arm, but she has her face shoved in her brother’s chest. Erik can be an insensitive jerk, often with the full knowledge of being such, but he won’t disturb Raven’s bit of peace with her brother. Charles is an ass himself, but he’s still her family and despite their ridiculous bet, he doesn’t doubt the love they have for one another. It’s a little awkward wrapping the piece with plastic wrap by himself, but he makes do.

Sometimes people regret tattoos. When he was starting out, practicing at acquaintances’ houses and illegal warehouse parties, he’d done multiple double handfuls of names on people drunk and sober. He’d had repeat customers who paid him to cover names up with banners or tribal designs and then have him tattoo a new name above or on a different arm. Erik thinks people who get such work are idiots; they will be sure to regret it later and have it covered up or lasered off.

But now, Erik looks at the tattoo Raven has worked so hard to illustrate and he thinks he might be one of them. It isn’t bad work, far from it, but as it begins to open up to him he wonders how much other people will see of him and why the exposure should bother him. All his other work is more of a timeline or memento of something he was puzzling through. Some of the early work isn’t very good; even he has a few cover-ups from his high school days with sewing needles and India ink. He only ever hid those from his family and their shul.

On the surface, all of it is strictly decorative and mostly abstract. Like the horizontal and vertical streaks of black on his torso that range down his side all the way to his knee. Or the red diagonal stripe which intersects the black at his hip. Both look like they were painted there by a house-painter’s wide bristle brush.

When people see his tattoos they are impressed with the innovation and skill, not the subject matter. Raven’s tattoo is completely unlike the others. It not only shows off her developing graphic and watercolor style, of which this piece is likely a cornerstone, it tells a story.

He snags the old, long-sleeved shirt he wore in today and pulls it over his head. The scrape of the threadbare cotton over the plastic wrap is annoying, but nothing he can’t bear. This way he doesn’t have to look at the tattoo.

Regardless of the private moment Raven and Charles are having, he wants to get things wrapped up with Sentimental Ink. The sooner that’s done, the sooner he can get onto Charles’ consultation, and the sooner he and Raven can get the outline done; the time for second-guessing is long past. Introspection will get him nowhere. He’ll have to make peace with Raven’s journeyman tattoo one way or another.

“Did you go talk to the magazine people?” he asks before walking to the opening in the railroad tie wall that often acts as a desk, table, impromptu bar, and bench.

Raven looks over Charles’ shoulder and rolls her eyes. “I’ll go. I’m going to get you one of Darwin’s awesome fake tuna salad sandwiches while I’m there.”

“Bring me a receipt,” Erik says without any rancor and moves around the wall and through the open doorway. “Or take my wallet.”

“Your _leather_ wallet is not welcome over there, Erik,” she says as she pulls away from Charles. “Why don’t you actually use the duct tape one I so thoughtfully made you for your birthday?”

“I’m saving it for when I need to deconstruct it,” Erik replies, “to tape your mouth shut.”

“I don’t know how you still have that wallet if that’s what you’re going to use it for,” Charles suddenly laughs, eyes dazzlingly bright above his smile.

They must be blood-related in some way, Erik thinks, because there is a purity there in the joy Raven and Charles share; a love expressed in teasing and needling each other. Smiles like theirs have gravity or magnetism or something equally dangerous. He finds himself taking several all-too-willing steps forward until he’s only an arm’s length away from the two.

“So much for sibling loyalty,” Raven says in outrage. She promptly gives lie to her protest by kissing Charles’ cheek and chirping, “You want anything? Tea? Gluten-free, vegan muffin? Angel-the-interviewer’s phone number?”

“No, thank you,” he replies, “I can take care of myself.”

“Sure you can,” she says over her shoulder as she walks down the hallway to the door. “Why don’t you show Erik some of my ideas for your tattoo while I’m gone?”

A day before Erik wouldn’t have been interested in designs for Charles’ tattoo; he would simply want to see Raven’s work. Now he wants to see what her designs say about her brother. If she can reveal so much of Erik after only knowing him for a couple years, twenty years of knowing Charles must far more telling.

Charles’ smile freezes and slowly melts into a neutral expression. After the sound of the front door closing behind his sister, he crosses his arms over his chest and turns to Erik. He says very carefully, “You’re both awfully serious about this tattoo business.”

Erik is unimpressed. “It pays the bills.”

The comment causes Charles to struggle visibly for a response. Erik prefers even awkward silence, but for Raven he will push. “I knew Raven had a trust fund, but she never told me the real reason she wouldn’t touch it for a year. I told her to wait to do her financial fasting until she made journeyman and could raise her rates. She didn’t listen.”

It’s clear Charles doesn’t want to have this conversation, but he doesn’t shift his weigh from foot to foot like most people. Instead, he steadies his stance, lifts his chin, and shoves his hands down into his pockets. He’s steady, square like a boxer, but with hidden fists.

“I’m afraid neither of us are particularly given to listening,” Charles admits wryly. “But a year of ramen is just that; a year of ramen. A tattoo is, as they say, is forever and as such, a disproportionate stake.”

“If you didn’t like your side of the stakes,” Erik returns, “you shouldn’t have taken the bet. Raven didn’t just eat ramen, she had to sell her car and move in with friends. She took a second job waitressing in the mornings at IHOP and she cancelled her smartphone package and started using my old Samsung. Admittedly, using my old phone drove her wild within a week.”

As Erik lists the various sacrifices Raven made, Charles holds his stance. He leans forward into the words like one would against an ocean wind, hands still anchored in his pockets.

“I had to be certain she knew what she was doing,” Charles scowls. “She’s brilliant, talented, and beautiful. She deserves a life surrounded by people that know her worth! She should live in New York, London, Paris, or Berlin, not an American city known mainly for hipsters and beavers.”

“And if she’d lost?” Erik’s blood is beginning to boil. It helps that he knows he’s getting angry, that he can feel his fuse burning and can still snuff it out.

“If she’d lost,” Charles scoffs, “then it would have been obvious to her that she didn’t really want to live like this and she’d go back to New York.”

“And you still think she’s deluded,” Erik snorts. He turns away from Charles and ducks back into the studio space. “Maybe you didn’t make her stakes high enough.”

“No, her heels are dug in now. You’ve rather seen to that.” Charles’ dress shoes’ click softly on the hardwood flooring behind Erik; he seems to be the type that thinks the best defense is offense.

The steps hush as Erik stands at the bookshelf above the bench that holds his laptop, speakers, and turntable. This area is always fragrant with incense both burned and unburned. The shelf he has come to holds a diverse array of small, oblong boxes; some made of paper, others of wood. The paper ones are printed with a variety of colors.

Erik’s not sure if he wants the expensive aloes wood or sandalwood, Asian incense or European. He settles on Asian and withdraws a small wooden box with Chinese characters seared into its face. He supposes some asshole in New York, London, Paris or Berlin has the same characters tattooed on his or her arm or chest.

“She knows what she wants,” Erik says, prying off the box’s lid. He withdraws two short, delicate sticks, closes the box again, and places it back where it came from. “I’ve no regrets supporting her decision.”

“She has no idea what’s best for her. And though I appreciate your sentiment, I don’t think you do, either.”

Erik reaches into his front jeans pocket for his lighter as he turns to face Charles. “You said yesterday that she improved more here than she had at her New York school. And today you said you thought this,” he pulls his hand from his pocket and gestures at his covered shoulder with the lighter, “was your favorite piece so far. She knows what’s best for her; making a living working in her preferred industry.”

“Her preferred industry,” Charles retorts, voice terribly low and calm, “is more famous for poor decisions, criminals, and sailors than anything else. The lifestyle, Erik, _this_ lifestyle is so below what she deserves. Think about it. What does _your_ family think about what you do?”

Erik considers Charles’ voice, the passion in his quiet arrogance, the way he leans forward, further into Erik’s space than is wise, and he flicks his thumb down on the lighter’s wheel. It’s that or punch Raven’s brother in the face with every ounce of fury his long body holds in potentia. The spark lights the fuel vapor and a long flame jumps up above the lighter’s metal body instead. Counting slowly to ten, Erik dips the ends of the incense sticks into the flame.

The flame begins to consume the thin sticks; Erik closes his lighter and drops it into his pocket again. He imagines the flames dancing on the tips of the incense are his desire to do violence. At ten he deliberately blows them out. In their place, sinuous columns of smoke billow up, carrying the rich scent of aloes wood; he visualizes his anger dispersing with the smoke as it rises toward the high ceiling. He turns from Charles and sets the sticks in a holder on the bench, next to the speakers.

By the time he’s done, he’s convinced himself that the effort required to patch things up with Raven wouldn’t be worth the momentary pleasure of forcefully deviating her brother’s septum via his scarred knuckles. When next he swivels back to Charles, he finds him with his eyes closed and one hand to the bridge of his nose, pinching lightly. Erik doubts Charles would find the coincidence at all amusing.

“I just said something awful.” Charles opens his eyes and looks over his thumb and knuckle.

Erik nods. “Yes, you did. You have no idea.”

“Raven told me you’re Jewish.” Charles admits. His fingers are still at his nose, his left hand grips his right elbow. “I’m sorry I said that. You’ve probably made enormous sacrifices.”

Erik shrugs. “You have no idea,” he repeats, because he is not going to think about this. He is not going to think about his parents or any of his relatives. No, that’s something that only forces itself on him on major holidays. It isn’t the first time he’s glad he moved to Portland, where the Jewish community isn’t tight knit like the East Coast and he hears more Hebrew than Yiddish when he hears either at all. “Show me Raven’s designs.” 

* * *

Charles wishes he’d asked Raven for chamomile tea; his stomach is churning and his throat is working a little in nausea. If Erik had liked him even a bit, there’s no possibility any of that has survived his latest outburst. Even as he searches his phone with clammy fingers to show Erik each design, he tells himself he shouldn’t care about that. There are any number of people that don’t like him, so it shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter if he drew blood to get his point across.

But if it didn’t matter, his stomach wouldn’t be in an uproar and his throat wouldn’t be tickling with nausea’s butterfly wings.

The problem with enjoying the various rivalries he has in biology circles is that he has little practice in holding back when someone makes him so uncomfortable. When he has good ammunition, he uses it. It was the same with Sharon and their stepfather, Kurt; a man so horrid that he was denied visitation rights to his biological offspring. He uses the vitriol the way he uses his charm; one to repel and the other to ensnare. Maybe that’s why Raven’s design for Erik speaks so loudly to him; he sees a little of himself in the two-headed beast.

Erik betrays no emotion as he looks through the images with him, but Charles notices he keeps his right side angled away like an animal protecting a wound. He’s back to silence even when Charles asks directly what he thinks of Raven’s designs. They’re beautiful, graphic helixes with splashes of unruly watercolor intertwined; a dance of the orderly and chaotic that, while beautiful, makes Charles think equally of mutations and cancer.

Just as he’s preparing himself to ask Erik what he thinks of the designs a second time, the door opens and he hears Raven, Angel, and the un-introduced photographer come back in. The group’s presence dispels any remaining tension between the two. Erik continues looking at the last, latest, design Raven sent, not even acknowledging the interlopers. Angel and the photographer descend on the gallery space’s couch with paper cups in hand.

Raven ducks under the short noren with a brown paper bag in one hand and a carrier with three drinks in the other. “Angel says they want my chimera tattoo since it’s a joint effort and then they’ll have enough material for the magazine. They’ll send a local photographer over when my journeyman piece is finished.”

“No food in the studio,” Erik murmurs, still looking at Charles’ phone. “Put it by the window and come back over here.”

“But little Ms. Pryde sends you an offering of decaf Americano~!” Raven croons in a singsong voice. She ignores Erik’s vaguely-delivered order and sets the bag on the railroad tie wall’s sill and walks over with the drink carrier. “Are you guys trading porn or are you still looking at my designs?”

Charles only wishes it was porn; he wonders what kind Erik likes. Of course, looking the way he does, maybe it would be better to wonder what kind he’d star in? Charles proceeds to nearly choke on his own spit. As usual Erik says nothing so Charles answers Raven instead, “Your designs. Are one of those drinks mine?”

“I knew you’d change your mind.” Raven grins at him and nods. “First flush Darjeeling! I already dosed it with soy milk for you.”

Her smile warms his heart as much as the tea warms his hand once he picks it up. “You are a delightsome creature, Raven.”

“I am,” Raven replies. She stands next to him but bends around Erik’s arm to look at Charles’ phone. “What’s up boss? Are you having a staring contest with Charles’ phone? I don’t fancy your chances.”

Erik gives a short sigh and glances sharply at Raven. “These aren’t like your usual work. They’re just variations on DNA helixes.”

Erik’s irritation is obvious, but Charles has no idea what’s prompting it. He hasn’t looked at the images closely or at any length, but Erik has been studying them like he’s trying to tease out the key to some alien cuneiform hidden within each line.

“They’re not personal,” Raven says, showing no disappointment with Erik’s irritation. She seems to be in agreement with him. “Charles works in life sciences, specifically in genetics, so I started there because it’s neutral ground. I’ve been frustrated with him so anything personal was coming out all wrong. I didn’t want to memorialize my anger on him. I’ve been waiting for inspiration to come up with something based on love.”

Raven and her honesty, Charles thinks, feeling his heart soften at her words. Few people really see the full range and diversity of his bad points the way she does. Nobody in his life loves him the way she does, either. She gets the full force of his arrogance and pride and turns love back on him regardless. That’s what has made sticking to his guns in the matter of her career choices so hard. He wants her to be happy and if that means they have struggles in their relationship, he just reminds himself his sacrifices are for her greater good.

“Thank you,” he says with every bit of gravitas he can muster and means it. “I love you, too.”

When Raven looks back at him, she’s not unaffected by his sentiment. Her eyes are a little wet, but tears don’t make it far enough to affect to her mascara. “Shut up, Charles.”

 _Yes, ma’am_ , he mouths to make her laugh. It works.

Erik, on the other hand, has an expression on his face that has finally ventured out of the limited spectrum of blank-to-annoyed. Charles is an expert when it comes to reading expressions and body language. It’s a skill that makes him particularly adept at charming his friends and enraging his opponents. Were he to name the emotion Erik is displaying, it would be either curiosity or interest. He sees it in the way Erik’s eyebrows lift over his eyes, the deepening of the creases on his forehead, the shine in his eyes that Charles hasn’t seen before.

“ _So ist das also_ ,” he says with something resembling a smile.

Charles feels an answering smile pull across his face. Apparently Erik’s faint accent is of German origin. Really, with his square forehead and jaw, height, and broad shoulders it should have been obvious. And that’s interesting, too, because shouldn’t he have used Yiddish rather than German? Not that Charles considers himself an expert on Jewish language conventions.

He passes the phone back to Charles without looking at him, because his eyes are back on Raven. “I would really appreciate it if you’d expedite the process. I want to start Charles’ consultation before five. You and I are going to be at it late tonight.”

“Right, then,” Raven nods. The warmth and good humor shared between she and Charles gives way to impishness. A bright sparkle of mischief springs to life in her eyes.

Charles shifts back defensively on his heels; he knows this particular smile is the precursor to something she thinks will annoy him. She’s rarely wrong. It’s the maniacal brightness of eye and upwards twist of lip that says she’s about to try to embarrass the hell out of him and do it with unholy glee. “Can you make sure Erik eats? I want to get back to work on him once the shoot is over.”

Charles glances at Erik. “I’ll try, but—”

But when he glances back, Raven takes the hem of her blouse and whips it up and over her head. She isn’t wearing a bra. As much as Charles genuinely loves and appreciates beautiful, full breasts like Raven’s, he doesn’t feel right seeing hers. Having them on display for Erik is far worse. No, it’s beyond unthinkable.

“ _Raven!_ My God, put your shirt back on!”

She laughs wickedly, but lifts the shirt to her chest all the same. “Oh my God, your face, Charles! Your expression! I can’t even believe you managed to manhandle Erik like that!”

With her breasts covered again, Charles is free to think and to realize, yes, he’s laid hands on Erik.  He registers firm muscles under thin cloth. One hand feels particularly slippery over warm skin. Charles tears his horrified gaze from Raven and follows his arms down to his hands; one is gripping Erik’s bicep, the other is flat on the back of his shoulder.

In his panic Charles has managed to twist Erik a full 180 degrees around until his back is to Raven.

Erik looks down at him from over his shoulder. “You have no idea just how many people get their nipples done in the course of a tattoo. Even I have one covered.”

“Maybe you do, but you have man nipples! And Raven’s my sister!” Charles retorts, both scandalized and every bit as embarrassed as Raven had intended. He yanks both hands back to his torso where they close in loose fists a few inches beneath and away from his rapidly beating heart.

“Man nipples…!” Raven sputters, choking on laughter. Her mascara is threatened by tears of hilarity as they squeeze from her crinkled eyes.

“Do you think I tattooed her with her shirt on?” Erik says as he turns back around. “Raven doesn’t have anything I haven’t seen before.”

“Hah, that’s the truth,” Raven agrees. “I better go get my picture taken,” she adds and heads for the gallery space with her shirt held loosely over her breasts. “Make sure Erik eats, Charles!”

“Put your shirt back on,” Charles says after her, but she does no such thing. “What if somebody comes to the door? It isn’t even locked!”

“If you don’t like it, don’t look,” Erik says. “Have you ever looked through her portfolio? Or seen any of the magazines she’s had work published in? There’s a lot of nudity involved in tattooing.”

Charles shakes his head; he knew she’d been published before and that this isn’t Erik’s first feature, but he’s never wanted to encourage her work in the field, so he’s only looked at, and enthused over, her designs, not the finished products. “Look, Erik, she’s my sister and I don’t want people looking at her breasts. How hard is that to understand?”

* * *

Erik doesn’t feel a bit of sympathy for Charles or his misplaced chivalry. He decides the argument isn’t worth it, even if he does value Raven more highly than anyone else in his association since Moira. Tuning Charles out, he leans toward the half-burned incense and waves the smoke over himself. Since he’s scaled back to simple social, incense is the only smoke he takes into his lungs with any regularity.

He picks up the paper bag with the sandwich inside and Kitty’s specially-made decaf Americano and walks out. He isn’t going to break his own rules and eat where he works. If Charles doesn’t want to see the magazine photographer shooting Raven’s chimera, that’s fine with him.

In the gallery space, Erik pushes the schedule book to the far side of the railroad tie sill and sets down his food and drink in the other. He sits between the two and pulls his long legs up to sit cross-legged. Quietly, he observes the photog working out the best way to use the naturally diffused light coming in through the factory window. Meanwhile Angel helps keep Raven’s hair from falling over the expansive back piece.

Raven had wanted the chimera on her front, but she hadn’t seen a way to incorporate the topography of her breasts with the piece, so she’d gone with her back. As it is, the scaled lioness appears to be climbing down Raven’s back. Her lion’s head is watchful, but non-threatening. It’s the three blue snakes acting as the lioness’ tail that writhe all over Raven’s upper back and shoulders in obvious volatile threat.

The tattoo design had started out with only one snake, but Raven had Erik add two more to cover her shoulders. Recently she’s been talking about adding a second pair to bring the design to her chest as she’s always wanted. Erik’s sure Charles won’t approve of that; though he thinks the mere fact that he and Raven had that one extremely stupid Pesach fuck would likely lead her brother to consider physical violence an option.

Erik spends a few moments on that thought. When agitated, Charles takes up a boxing stance; depending on how much he knows and how strong his punches are, academic or not, he might be able to give Erik a run for his money. If Charles has muscles under the blazer and dress shirt, and if he could get inside Erik’s long reach, chances are good the shorter man could send him to a hospital.

Which would be fine, because Erik doesn’t plan on hitting back. No, not anymore. Not if he can help it. And if he can’t? He shakes the thought out of his head; it’s not an option for him.

He unwraps his sandwich and begins to eat instead. He’s had it before, but Erik’s always amazed that Darwin can make chickpeas taste like tuna. It’s also nice that vegan food is almost automatically kosher, though it isn’t like that really matters now. Erik observes personal traditions for his mother, because even though he doesn’t believe in an afterlife or deity, he’s sentimental enough that he wants to honor her memory with _something_. Because sure as shit, there’s no way in hell a rabbi, no matter how loving and liberal, or equally as corrupt, is going to bless his tattoo benches.

As Erik eats, he watches Charles venture to the doorway and flips the noren behind his head; he’s tall enough that the short curtain comes down to his chin. For Erik it’s more of an effective visual block, hitting him around clavicle height. It makes for a decent psychological demarcation between their open gallery space and the private area where they work. Often enough, people with crap boundaries aren’t deterred by it. Erik doesn’t mind; that’s what harsh words were made for, but he wishes Raven hadn’t rendered the short curtain’s test useless to her brother.

Charles watches, at first, as the photographer shoots Raven’s chimera. In turn, Erik continues to watch the watcher from the corner of his eye. He has no idea at this point what he’s going to design for Charles without his input. Raven hadn’t known, either, or she would have done something more than pretty DNA helixes.

That’s one mystery solved: if Raven sees herself as a chimera, something powerful and feminine, something that can change appearance at will, and if she can see him as a two-headed dragon, something that fights against itself, then all the helixes lacked the usual dimension because she had made no personal connection with them. He’d known there was something different about them instinctually, but it took her telling him what it was to figure it out. It means that genetics is Charles’ field and interest, but genetics isn’t who he is.

Which brings him to an interesting question. Does he want to design a tattoo that says something about Charles? How well will he have to know him to design for him? Or does he just want to stay in his comfort zone and pull off yet another piece that showcases his advanced technical skill married to his anatomical knowledge? He’s not sure. He’ll have to bounce the idea off Charles _and_ Raven.

It would help if Charles actually knew what styles he was known for, so Erik swallows another bite of his sandwich and turns his head to the right. “Charles.”

“Yes?” Charles looks at him, distracted from his staring. There’s a deep crease at his brow where his eye brows have crowded together. He seems the type to carry stress there, probably given to tension headaches.

“Do you prefer art books to be paper or digital?”

Charles lifts one eyebrow at that; it arches in the way the adjective diabolical was created solely to lend descriptive power to. “Digital for easy transport, paper if convenience isn’t an issue.”

Erik wonders if Charles ever gives simple answers. If he continues Raven’s theme of mythological creatures, maybe a sphinx would be appropriate for Charles. He gestures with his free hand to the coffee table to one side of the couch. He and Raven always keep their better and more diverse works in portfolios on the table where customers can easily get to them without having to ask.

“I’d like you to go through those.” Erik keeps his tone neutral. It isn’t hard now that he’s starting to think about a different kind of project. If there’s anything he likes, it’s a new challenge to conquer. “There are some sticky notes in my desk you can use to mark anything that catches your eye.”

The stress on Charles’ face turns sour before becoming tired exasperation. “Right. Perhaps that will keep me from thinking about the world staring at photos of my sister’s breasts.”

Erik shrugs. “You do know that Raven’s played the field, right? Not a few boys and girls have done more than just looked at her breasts.”

The look Charles turns on him is only just short of murderous, but Erik can’t bring himself to care. Maybe it means he suspects Erik’s gotten intimate with those glorious tits of Raven’s, but it serves the asshole right.

“If you ever had a sister, you’d understand,” Charles finally retorts and stalks the short walk to the coffee table.

“Jesus,” Raven mutters, as he goes, “can you stop talking about my boobs?”

“Senti Ink doesn’t do nudity,” Angel adds as if by rote. “Too much of a hassle. If Raven has any nip showing, it’ll get ’shopped out. Though, hey, we did run an issue that accidentally showed a guy’s sac. It’s been two years and I’m pretty sure our art director is still waiting for obscenity charges.”

Raven and Angel snicker over the incident while Charles picks up the four coffee table portfolios and retreats to the studio. Erik watches him absently, content to eat the other half of his sandwich in peace. Too bad Kitty’s Americano will be tepid by the time he gets to it. He’ll have to visit her for another later if she’s still on the clock.

A few minutes later, the photographer steps back and tells them he has enough shots. He even offers to let Charles look through them. Erik finds himself annoyed at the guy’s peace offering, but says nothing, watching Raven instead as she pulls her shirt on. She really does have great breasts, he thinks, but other than tattooing the other two serpents along her décolletage, his time with them is certainly done.

“Charles will gut you if he sees you staring like that,” she says and leans against the wall next to the sill. “How you feeling?”

“He thinks a little too much about your breasts for a brother,” Erik snarks.

“Ugh, gross. But no, how are you feeling, asshole?”

Erik gives her a show of teeth that few would interpret as a smile. “Better. What did you tell them?”

“I told them you hadn’t eaten,” she sighs. “I felt weird about the other thing you said. Anyway, Angel said she doesn’t plan to use it for the article.”

He felt weird about what he’d said, too, but doesn’t say as much. In the end, he trusts Raven’s instinct for these things, so he has no complaint. Raven picks up the schedule book and sits right next Erik, careful of the fairly fresh tattoo under his shirt and a layer of plastic wrap. They sit and quietly share space as Angel and the photographer pack up their stuff one last time; they have a plane to catch in four hours. It would probably be a smart move to join them for dinner somewhere, but Erik wants to get business taken care of with Charles and get back on the journeyman tattoo with Raven.

When the magazine people are ready, he and Raven move off the sill and see them to the door. Angel’s smile and Raven’s jokes improve his mood enough that he almost wishes he could invite them to dinner. Almost.

As they head downstairs for their rental car, Angel pauses and turns back to Raven. “Let me know your schedule; I’d like to talk to you about getting some work done.”

“Sure,” Raven replies. “Better plan on coming out for business _and_ pleasure! We can do the Art Walk and tour the breweries.”

Raven is beaming even after the two have left. She hugs Erik, but keeps their former comfortable silence. She doesn’t have to tell him how important it is for an industry person like Angel to want her work. He gives her a one-armed hug back and smiles down at her. He feels inexplicably tired, but he won’t let that deny her this victory.

She rushes from his hold when they near their desk in order to attack Charles with her enthusiasm. Erik listens just long enough to hear Charles’ censure warm into what might be brotherly pride, then sits back on the railroad tie sill to think about sphinxes. Maybe he could design a tattoo in Raven’s style instead of his own. Of course, Charles might still resist taking things seriously, so perhaps the first thing he designs should be outrageous. That’s easy enough. Erik picks up a pen and notepad and starts sketching.

“Let’s start the consultation,” he says over his shoulder, into the studio. He’s expecting Charles to come around the wall, into the gallery but he hears the chair at the desk behind him pull out instead. Erik shrugs and pivots around on his ass; as a college professor perhaps desks make Charles feel more comfortable.

Charles looks at him from where he’s seated at the desk and, yes, he looks like he owns it. He has all four portfolios laid out before him and a pad of unopened sticky notes on top. His blue eyes are piercing, his expression sober. For a moment Erik is taken aback, reminded first of Moira MacTaggert and then his high school principle back in New York. Neither woman brooked his nonsense whether he towered over them or not.

He shakes the feeling off, but he’s impressed and intrigued all the same. The memories fade and he returns to the text he’s working out on his notepad. “See anything that gives you any ideas?”

“They’re all excellent pieces,” Charles says, “but I don’t see anything that works for me.”

“That’s fine, I’ve got a text piece here that will work. How do you feel about Spencerian script? Or maybe Round Hand for your English heritage?” Erik keeps embellishing the sketch as he talks, completely at ease. “Spencerian is American, of course. I learned to read and write in Germany, though, so if you want Kurrent or Frakture, those are also options.”

Across the desk, Erik hears him shift, notes Charles’ shadow coming closer as he leans forward. It’s the first sign of interest since all this started. Unexpected. “Text? You know, I hadn’t thought of that at all. Neither you nor Raven have much text in your portfolios.”

“We both do text,” Erik corrects, “but neither of us have text-only pieces in the coffee table books. Most of my text works are incorporated into a piece and half the time the text doesn’t look like text; words distract from an image.”

“I think Raven and I have discussed that before,” Charles replies. “I’ve seen a fair number of text tattoos. I don’t know if there’s any one thing, though, that is important enough to print on my skin. Now you have me curious. What’s this text piece you think would work for me?”

Erik looks down at his rushed Spencerian handiwork. It isn’t his best, but it doesn’t have to be, it just has to look good while conveying his message, which it does. Even though Charles won’t like what it says, he’ll have to register that the work itself is professional. He tucks his pen behind his ear and turns the notepad to Charles’ capable hands.

It says: _I lost a Bet with my Sister and all I got out of it was this stupid Tattoo._

“Raven told you my rates. $200 an hour with a two hour minimum. You’re a wealthy man,” Erik says calmly, watching Charles face dispassionately as interest turns to shock turns to quickly suppressed disgust. “$400 American won’t make a dent in your wallet. You’ve probably had dinners that cost more than that. Possibly even with heads of state. Still, if I were you, I’d want to get my money’s worth out of it.”

Erik may not be able to sympathize, but he can empathize with how difficult it must be for Charles to keep from crushing the note with the infuriating sketch in his hand. Erik knows he can be infuriating, but he also knows when he’s right.

When Charles looks up from the notepad, his face is shuttered, but his blue eyes are electric with energy. He looks alive like that; somehow vital and more than a little sexy. Erik finds himself far more interested in this tattoo project than he was before.

“Fine. I’ll work with you on this,” Charles says with the perfect control of the deeply angered. He rips the page off the notepad and folds it up in ruthlessly creased squares of rapidly diminishing dimensions.

“Good,” Erik replies evenly. “I’ll have my assistant coordinate with you.”

“You do that,” Charles retorts and propels himself back from the desk. He stands swiftly and shoves the paper in his front pocket with more of that electric intensity. “Raven, give me a call tonight when you’re free, please. I’m heading back to the hotel to have few drinks with my colleagues.”

“No problem! We’re closed Saturdays, so if the weather permits and you want to picnic with me, we can go to the Rose Garden.”

Charles nods, but says nothing more as he collects his messenger bag and heads down the hall. The door to the stairs doesn’t slam behind him, but it’s a close thing.

“You are an incredible troll,” Raven comments dryly. Her expression hints that she thinks she knows more than he’s letting on. “I think you like him.”

“No, I’m just being myself.” It isn’t a lie. He can’t deny a little animal attraction, but that’s just another statement with little chance of coming out of his mouth.  “And start Dr. Xavier’s bill with a $100 charge; he just walked out with my original artwork.”


	3. Dancing polarities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You, since that magic day,  
> we've been like magnets in a play  
> we smash in then pull away"  
> Janelle Monáe, _Faster_  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if this will be five chapters or six, but you if you've read my other fics this numbered-chapter thing is a familiar dance to you. 
> 
> I got lucky! SouvenirsFamiliers cleaned up my rough sketch of Raven's back piece, colored it, and made it her own. [Check it out here!](http://unnecessaryligatures.tumblr.com/post/55372268190/chimera)

* * *

_Dancing polarities_

“You’re going to owe me,” Erik says, as he puts the Frontier into park, turns off the windshield wipers, and pulls up the brake. “Coffee for a week and those meth-laced lavender cookies.”

The rain has passed back to a more penetrating drizzle. It collects silently on the truck’s paint and glass in growing beads until they’re large enough to run in silver rivulets down every vertical and sloped surface. The cloud cover has triggered the lights early; the fallen rain sparkles, reflecting the lamplight from all around the garden’s parking.

With a twist on the keys, Erik turns the six-cylinder engine off. He pulls the key out and slides his key ring into his olive green raincoat. Erik pulls the hood up out of necessity; he may like rain, but getting soaked will just make him cold, after all. He opens his door into the rain and steps down to the wet asphalt.

The black truck is the only vehicle present in the parking lot. Normally, the Rose Garden is more popular, but Erik suspects the rain and late afternoon hour is keeping people away. It frees him to enjoy the smell of roses, fir trees, and rich, wet earth. Nearby, he hears crows calling to each other.

“This is hardly the worst thing you’ve done on a Saturday.” Raven pulls up the hood on her rain coat and follows him out, splashing in puddles in her purple Wellies with white polka dots.

“Yeah, but you’re supposed to be my Shabbos goy,” Erik replies as he walks around the truck. “Not the other way around.”

In truth, Erik often works on Saturdays, even goes in to the shop to meditate; a habit which leads to cleaning, upgrading the autoclave, or otherwise improving his business. He doesn’t feel bad about violating Shabbos; his mother’s disapproval and frustration were light in the face of his industriousness. Especially when she’d discovered that he sometimes worked to tease her.

He pulls the tailgate down and reaches in for the collapsible metal canopy frame Darwin loaned Raven on last minute notice. He pulls the frame forward with his off hand in order to avoid stretching the new tattoo on his right. It’s a strange feeling to have his still freshly-tattooed skin stick a little to the underside of his t-shirt. It burned during his morning shower, but no worse than his ribs when his blackwork was fresh.

“You’re just jealous nobody’s done something like this for you,” Raven says, snagging the bag with the canopy’s vinyl cover. “Though, you know you can always do this for somebody else. The Sentimental Ink photographer was into you.”

“Too much work for a one-night stand.” Erik takes the metal frame under one arm and heads for the sidewalk that eventually leads to the test garden. On a clear day there’s a lovely view of Mt.Hood, but that’s a rough bet until June.

“That’s rich, coming from you,” Raven says from beside him. She has her face down, watching the splash of her boots as she hits puddles and sends the wash purposely over Erik’s shins and thong-style sandals. If he were wearing shoes he’d have long since wrestled her to the grass and shoved mud down the back of her shirt.

“Is it?” he asks automatically. “You’re thinking of setting up at the bench that has the view of Mt.Hood?”

“That’s the place. Bench’ll be wet, but I brought towels.” She switches back to his first, mostly rhetorical question. “And yeah it’s rich, because, it’s too much work for a one-night stand but here you are helping me.”

Erik’s pleasant mood falters, but he doesn’t miss his step. “We agreed that night was a mistake.”

“Better to laugh about it,” she replies, as they head up the stairs. “Because sooner or later you might give up the occasional one-night stands for a commitment. And if that happens you’ll have to tell somebody we fucked. I had to tell Hank before he and I got serious.”

“That won’t be a problem.” He’d shrug, but the frame makes the effort too much of a burden. “Is that why I’ve never met Hank? Territorial pissings?”

“Pffft! No.” Raven chuckles. They’re almost up the last flight of stairs. “He was a nervous wreck before and after meeting my brother and Charles is capable of being one hell of a charmer. No, Hank needs exposure to you a little bit at a time to build his immunity. Once we move in together, I think that’ll be more doable.”

“You’re going to have to buy a car, if you move to Corvallis.” Erik sets the canopy frame down by the bench and starts pulling the legs out to expand it. Raven’s plan of a slow introduction suits him just fine. “Speaking of Charles, I knew somebody in France that used to have access to ink that fades within a few years. I wouldn’t tell your brother that, but it would save him laser treatment if the ink is still available.”

At first Raven doesn’t respond. She pulls the canopy’s top out of its bag and starts unfolding it. It isn’t until she starts to drape it over the frame that she replies. “Get me your contact’s info and I’ll make some inquiries, but Erik, I’m serious about this. Charles needs to accept his consequences. Also, I have a feeling you can get through to him where I can’t. You already got him to talk to you about it; he just ignores me.”

“Of course he ignores you,” Erik replies. He has the legs almost completely expanded and so turns to help Raven slot the vinyl cover in the perimeter posts. “Familiarity breeds contempt.”

“No, it’s more than that.” Raven pauses and looks out over the rain gathering on the blue canopy’s expanse. What light there is to be had reflects up from the tarp, painting her skin an ephemeral blue similar to that of her chimera’s serpents. “You bother him, Erik. Pardon the pun, but people just don’t get under his skin like that. When it comes to my friends, he defers politely or ignores them when he doesn’t agree, but he’s only just met you and he’s shown teeth.”

Erik doesn’t look away from Raven’s face within her colorfully-striped hood. He wonders at the little jolt that strikes his stomach at her words. He’s not sure if it is nausea or interest, but either way it doesn’t feel particularly pleasant. Finding the canopy’s construction more comfortable by far, he finally returns to its completion. He concentrates on the feeling of the drizzle as it washes over the backs of his hands and glides down his forearms past the elastic at his wrists.

“He’s taking this seriously now,” Raven continues. She has her half of the vinyl secured and makes no move to do more. Her bare hands rest lightly on the tarp; she seems to have lost focus on her part of their task. “I really think you can convince him, Erik. He said he’d work with you and I believe him.”

“He might be thinking he can put this off for a few years,” Erik replies at length. He finishes hooking the last few tarp corners over their corresponding rods. “How often is he in America?”

“Charles is usually here for conferences and holidays.” Raven places her hands on her hips and nods to him knowingly. “And you’re doing the London show in September. But where either of you are won’t matter until he agrees on the design. After that, well, Charles might seem like his privilege has made him soft, but he’s tough. If he prepares properly, he could probably take a well-planned six-hour session.”

“No, I agree; he probably can take six hours,” Erik muses. He spreads the legs the last of the way out and lowers their supports to lock them in place. “I’ll keep that in mind as I work on the design.”

“Have any ideas yet?”

“I thought I might try to do something like your chimera, only on a less detailed, smaller scale.” Erik ducks under the fully seated tarp and starts raising the four corners of the canopy a bit at a time. “Something suited to him, so he’s more likely to accept it. Maybe a sphinx.”

Raven ducks underneath the canopy and pulls her hood back from her head. Her dark roots are beginning to show along the part of her hair. More importantly, she’s looking at him curiously. “He’ll think you’re trolling if you send him a sphinx. Naked boobies, right? Anyway, he’s not so mysterious. Last night he sounded interested in text.”

“Text would leave the ball in his court,” Erik comments. “If left to his own devices, he won’t choose a quote or create his own. I’m going to have to push him every step of the way.”

“Yeah,” Raven sighs. “That’s true. And quotes can be even trickier than images; they don’t grow with a person as easily.”

With the four corners raised to their full height, all that’s left is to go back to the truck and grab the sandbags to keep the canopy from blowing away. It isn’t a likely event, with the lack of wind in the seeping, omnipresent drizzle, but Erik prefers to be prepared in case of disaster.

 

* * *

 

Charles is in a seminar discussing information analyzing strategies to mitigate the genome sequencing data that continues to flood the field. Since this morning, he’s been thinking about Raven. It hasn’t been entirely a pleasant experience between his hangover and multiple strange dreams.

He can still remember the last dream of her walking around the convention naked and forcing him to go naked, too. He even recalls hazy dreams about Erik’s black stripe turning flat and opaque. In the dream he and Erik had resumed a conversation about Raven, but he couldn’t remember what either of them said when he woke up.

It was a compelling dream and it has nourished a kernel of thought he doesn’t want to examine. Unfortunately, the damage is done, the seed has cracked and roots have sunk into the fertile soil of Charles’ restless mind. Charles is, for the first time, exploring the vague notion that he might be slightly incorrect, only a little misguided in what is best for Raven.

He’d thought their bet would force her to realize that her earnings in the tattoo industry would not afford her a decent life without a strong reliance on her trust fund. She’s always hated the idea of depending on the money that came from Brian’s, and then Sharon’s, death. Even though it was cruel and manipulative, Charles had counted on Raven’s abhorrence of depending on that money to cure her of her desire to work in an unsavory service-related business.

But she’d made the sacrifices necessary to go on and had, in fact, mentioned that she could have done it for the rest of her life only relying on her trust fund for health insurance.

He’d brushed her commentary off as contrary and self-deluded, until he’d seen how happy she was at the studio. Heard Erik make his matter-of-fact commentary about how she had bloomed as an artist by working in the so-called real world and even reiterated the sacrifices she’d made. Then Charles had seen with his own eyes how professional and precise she was preparing Erik for his tattoo even under watchful eyes. Finally, Angel, the magazine writer, had affirmed Raven’s skill and genius.

It doesn’t help that traces of the two-headed dragon continue to linger beneath his eyelids. The trouble is that Raven’s tattoo for Erik is the sort of revealing, personal work one rarely sees in museums. It’s a masterpiece not made for public consumption or approval; few would ever look beyond the initial clichés to the profundity of their relevance. A masterpiece profoundly relevant to the individual who wears it skin deep. Erik is the key to the dragon just as the dragon is a key to Erik.

Charles should be listening to the seminar and the creative as well as the pedantic suggestions flying around the room. He should be joining in and taking his usual hand-written notes. Instead he has the recording app going on his phone and his tablet in hand. He takes his time browsing Raven’s portfolio on the Quicksilver website. While he’s at it, he checks her bio and chuckles at how informal and personable it is. Erik’s is nothing more than a fully-referenced, bulleted list of skills, achievements, and awards; there’s nothing about where he learned his trade or where he’s worked.

It is against the website’s backdrop that he sees the incoming message icon. The text is a simple message from Raven telling him her picnic invitation to the Rose Garden is good rain or shine and that she will pick him up from the hotel at six. The message cheers him, despite his churning thoughts and the terrible headache from drinking too much with his colleagues the night before.

The rest of the day moves on and he gets right back into his groove; studying both the lectures and the general attitude of the assembled academics. On Sunday, one of his colleagues is presenting her work and, if the preponderance of the attending scientists seem antagonistic, he intends to be in the crowd to support her against any frivolously dissenting comments. He’s good at that and bringing a people over to a point of view he champions. The only person he doesn’t seem to be able to do that to, other than Raven, is Erik.

At the end of the last seminar for the day, Charles is so caught up in a discussion about fraudulent research out of several prestigious international universities that he forgets the time completely. He and a few others are arguing about the need for more or less oversight when he hears a familiar voice.

“Oh my God, Charles, do your students have to come get you for classes?”

Laughingly chagrined, Charles turns toward Raven’s voice. “There’s a reason I have no first period classes!”

“Charles, it is 6:30 in the afternoon.”

Her jeans are tucked into polka dot Wellies and there’s a furled umbrella in her hand. She’s wearing a judiciously butchered Oxford sweatshirt that hangs off one shoulder and displays several square inches of blue skin.

“Christ, man,” laughs a colleague from ColumbiaUniversity, “you have somebody in every port, don’t you? She certainly looks like a wild child, Xavier.”

Charles’ expression darkens, counterpoint to the deceptively light tone he uses in reply. “Why this lovely creature happens to be my sister, Professor.”

The man pales and begins sputtering an apology, but nobody is listening: all eyes are on Raven as she walks up to Charles and kisses his cheek. “This lovely creature has arrived to sweep you out into the even lovelier Portland weather for a picnic.”

Charles feels his colleagues’ stares as if they were on him rather than Raven. Instead of kissing her back, he reaches up and picks at the neck of his old Oxford sweatshirt, trying to cover up the blue. He’s momentarily thankful she doesn’t have any visibly unusual piercings; her gauged, wooden earrings are hidden by the mass of her dyed blond hair.

“You must be cold,” he says. “Where’s your coat?”

The smile drops from Raven’s face; she pushes his hands off her shoulders. “Out in the truck with my abaya.”

“Wonderful,” Charles says, his smile bright and plastic. “Let’s go, shall we? Before the weather takes a turn for the worse.”

“Sure.” Raven shoves the umbrella at him, turning away before he’s even got his hands on it; he manages to catch it before it hits the floor. He shrugs and gives his disbelieving colleagues an apologetic smile in farewell, and then jogs to catch up with Raven.

The drizzle is now a light rain; the umbrella is a good choice. Raven waits for him to unfurl it under the shelter outside the entryway. He undoes the closure and presses the button along the aluminum shaft and the canvas spreads out with a rush and a snap. Though her arms are crossed over her chest and her eyes as icy as frozen earth, he steps close to swing the umbrella up in an arc above both their heads.

“Lovely weather for a picnic,” he says. “We could stop and I could buy us some brandy or schnapps.”

Raven unfolds one arm to shove a hand in her pocket to pull out a set of keys. Then it’s right back up, covering her chest; the motion up nudges one shoulder of the sweatshirt down to uncover more blue scales. With his free hand, Charles reaches out and tugs the worn fabric up again.

“When did you steal this? I don’t remember when I noticed it was gone.”

She looks at him, her eyes liquid with emotion he fears might overflow borders and flood over her round cheeks. “My first year at SVA. The Christmas after Sharon died. The winter of my discontent.”

Winter of discontent was an understatement for them both, Charles thought. It was that messy winter when he broke up with two different lovers, fell in love with every single one-night stand, and died every morning he woke up alone. All while trying and failing to take in and shelter the ocean of Raven’s emotional turmoil.

“I gave you vintage Tiffany that year,” Charles tries, “and you stole my rattiest sweatshirt. Well, young lady, I shall mend the error of my ways and from here on save all my rubbish clothes for you.”

Raven looks sharply down and the motion sends two trickles down her face. Charles makes more mistakes than he cares to admit, but this is one he hopes he will never make: he swallows her up in his arms and presses her to his painfully clenched chest. Though they remain under the parking lot shelter, he keeps the umbrella aloft, over their heads.

Raven hesitates before finally putting her arms around Charles’ ribs and setting her chin on his shoulder. When she speaks it’s with a slight croak to her voice. “Please, Charles. Please stop thinking I’m something to be ashamed of. And don’t insult me by pretending that you don’t; I’m not stupid.”

Charles loosens his fingers on the umbrella so the shaft slides down until the armature hits his knuckles. He angles his wrist to tip the umbrella back to shield them both not from rain, but from observers. “I’m sorry. I’m ruining everything again, aren’t I?”

Her chin doesn’t dig in but inscribes an invisible quarter circle on his shoulder, back and forth across his wool blazer as she shakes her head. “Sometimes I feel like I’m one of your girlfriends or boyfriends, but you can’t dump me for being too emotionally invested, because we’re related. Except, no, you would never date a SVA drop out, let alone a tattooist.”

“Raven,” Charles whispers, trying desperately for soothing, “you’re right; I would never date you, but not because you dropped out of SVA or because you tattoo people.”

He pulls back enough to look her again in her eyes. She looks back, chin ducked and still defensive, but waiting. “You’re scaring me.”

“No, don’t be scared.” He lets go of her with his free hand just long enough to pull his arm up and tap her nose and offer her a fragile curve of lips. “I wouldn’t date you because, as you always remind me, I have awful taste in partners. Don’t you always say I chase the bad ones and dump the good ones? I might not approve of Hank long-term, but obviously he knows quality when he sees it.”

A few more tears navigate her cheeks, but she matches his weak smile with one of her own. “You know, I want your approval, but I’ve stopped making decisions based on it.”

The admission stings, it always does, but Charles nods this time and says nothing more. None of the so-called domineering mantras about her age or maturity leave his mouth. Nor does he apologize, but he would have to decide he’s wrong before he’d offer Raven one of those.

“C’mon, Erik’s waiting for us,” she says and pulls away. But she slips her right hand down to his open left and holds it.

They step into the rain and splash across the blacktop to the far rows of parked vehicles. He keeps her hand in his as they go, but doesn’t ask the question bothering him until they get to a black truck.

“Why is Erik waiting for us?”

Raven pulls the proper key to the fore from amongst the other keys on the ring. She slots the key and turns it to the right, opens the door, and hits the driver’s side button to unlock the passenger side. “Because he’s guarding our picnic set up and this is his truck.”

Again he remembers Erik’s words. _Raven didn’t just eat ramen, she had to sell her car and move in with friends._ Last she’d told him she was still living in a drafty loft with two friends; a DJ trying to get out of his Nike day job and a Spanish model that’s almost never home and rumored to be dating a Russian mobster.

Once they’re both inside the truck and Raven has pulled out onto the rainy streets, Charles says, “You know, it’s been several months since you won the bet. You can buy any car you like now.”

“Yeah.” She nods and glances at him with another weak, yet hopeful, smile. “I know.”

The ride over to the Rose Garden is filled with the rain’s calm surrusus. The leaden sky has deepened into full dark by the time Raven pulls into the garden’s rain-slick parking. She eschews the umbrella she gave Charles for a colorful, striped raincoat which she rests it across her thighs. She reaches back behind Charles’ seat to the half cab to lift a pair of black rain boots through the seats’ divide. The boots are deposited unceremoniously in his lap. “Wouldn’t want to ruin your shoes.”

Charles rolls his eyes, but is thankful: he may have a tendency to wear the same combinations of color and fabric when it comes to suiting, but he has always had an avid interest in good shoes. He pulls his dark leather shoes from his feet, noting their relative need for polish and shine as he removes each one.

The boots Raven has given him are Columbia-branded rubber; they have no laces and the tread is only slightly worn down on the heel and ball of the foot. They’re too big to be Raven’s, but too small for her boyfriend. If she’s borrowed Erik’s truck, he supposes she’s borrowed his boots as well. _Today I shall walk, not a mile, but the short distance to a soggy rose garden in your shoes._

“What’s so funny?” Raven asks from within her adorably striped hood. “You’re smiling all of a sudden.”

Charles pushes his right foot into a boot first. “Ah, just wondering whose shoes I’m walking in today.”

Raven’s smile is wider now, her eyes crinkling a bit at the edges. “Erik’s. Too bad his feet are so big; he seems to want to walk in yours lately.”

A shock hits Charles’ in an instant. He can feel his heart squeezing his fingers tight and then loose with every pulse of frantic blood. “Why would he want to do something like that?”

“He’s starting to come up with ideas for a design,” Raven replies. “He’s trying to make it something that’ll suit you. That’s new to him; he’s more technical and design oriented, not into personalities. So, your tattoo will either be a new direction for him or a one-off. Either way, an important piece for both of you.”

It is amazing he can hear her over the blood rushing through his head. Is she saying that Erik wants to get to know him? It’s terrifying. It’s electrifying.

The driver’s side door opens and the sound of the rain grows all the louder without the door’s protective seal. Cold air drifts in, chasing the warmth in the cab generated by their bodies in the confined space.

“Are you coming?”

Raven’s voice galvanizes him from his deep pause. Fumbling with the second boot, Charles finally slides his foot home and snags his leather shoes with his index and ring fingers. “Do I leave these here or take them with me?”

“Leave them,” Raven says, her voice now soft, harmonizing with the falling rain. “Erik will pick us up later.”

He leaves the shoes on the gray rubber foot mat and lets himself out of the truck, umbrella leading. Both doors lock automatically when Raven locks her side.

Rain is nothing new to Charles; Oxford is no stranger to clouds or unrelenting rain. The boots are also nothing new, only a little big; something he could possibly cure with an extra pair of thick socks. His folded over trouser legs work well in that regard.

Portland’s Rose Garden sparkles under the various streetlamps. In the contrast of the bright lamps and shadows, the conifers and rose vines are nearly the same shade of blackish-green. The roses are bursts of riotous color; a multitude of variations on white, yellow, orange, red, pink, and purple. They are made all the more bright by the darkness hemming them in and the reflection of light in the rain on their petals.

Charles sees and smells their beauty and his hammering heart gentles. Even as his senses are captivated, his emotions turn again to appreciate Raven’s forethought. While the garden might be a beautiful array of flowers on the outside, it is clearly a test garden on the inside.

“Raven, how do you come up with things like this?” he asks. Maybe it’s simple, but a test garden is just as much a stunning example of Gregor Mendel’s work as Charles’ middle school pea plants had been. Rose blooms, thorns, and fragrance trump the humble peas with their extravagant displays, however.

“I guess brilliance runs in the family,” she smiles as they advance along the paved path to the top of the rise. He agrees with a wink and a squeeze of her hand. Charles can make out a canopy that becomes clearer with every veil of rain they pass through.

When they finally clear the last set of stairs, they are just to the blue canopy’s right. Charles can see two duffle bags on the damp grass and a rain coat hooked on one of the aluminum struts. There is a garden bench beneath the canopy and Erik’s long body, folded up to fit within its limits.

His shoulders are pillowed against one handrail with two folded towels, chin tucked to sternum, his arms are crossed over his broad chest. His knees are the highest point, stuck in the air like Mt.Hood’s currently elusive peak, his bare feet braced against the opposite handrail. His eyes are closed and his chest rises and falls with slow, steady breaths.

“Sweet Jesus,” Raven sighs. “It’s like he can fall asleep anywhere but his own apartment.”

“Maybe the rain on the canopy made him tired?” Charles suggests, but he’s looking his fill while Erik isn’t awake to see him.

Shirtless though he was the other day when Charles and the magazine people perved on Erik’s torso together, it was still a sight broken up by the harsh, black tattoo that dominates his body. A loose, short-sleeve shirt covering his torso now makes sure there’s no optical illusion to obscure the breadth of his shoulders in relation to the slimness of his hips. The quiet sight makes it hard to remember his previous anger with Erik or the annoying script left in last night’s smoke-scented trousers.

“Maybe,” Raven comments while slipping her hand into her pocket. She retrieves a battered smartphone from the denim and swipes her finger across the face. The backlighting casts white blue light across her face. “But we have rainy season for like nine months of the year. Probably the adrenaline depletion from six hours under my needles last night.”

“How much did you get done?” Charles asks. He tries to make the question sound casual, but Raven knows him well, so the desired result isn’t assured.

Seemingly unaware, she taps the face of her phone twice. “Ask him.”

Erik’s raincoat begins to buzz and one of the pockets glows blue. Raven grabs the coat by its hood and walks it over to Erik. She swings the coat out as close to his head as she can without entering his reach. Even in sleep Erik’s face is not serene, Charles has yet to see the line between his eyebrows recede. That doesn’t change when his brow furrows and the lines around his eyes deepen. Erik’s long hands pull away from his chest and pat at his pockets. Coming up empty-handed, his eyes open and he squints up at the jacket hanging near his head, then past it to Raven.

“You’re late,” Erik says, hooks his feet under the armrest they were braced on and uses the leverage to sit up straight. Charles doubts Erik knows how unconsciously attractive little things like that are.

Raven hands him the drab coat. “You’ll forgive me.”

“Double the coffee,” Erik grumbles, and swings his long legs over the bench while rubbing at one eye with the heel of his hand. “Double the meth cookies.”

He sets the coat aside on the bench; the phone stops buzzing as Raven ends her call. She crouches down to one of the duffle bags and draws the zip down its blunt-toothed track. She reaches within and brings out an electric lantern. It lights the canopy immediately with its cold LED glow the moment she opens it.

Raven sets it aside and then retrieves a wine bottle, plastic containers of sauce and tortellini, a set of silverware, and another, smaller, container filled with chocolate chip cookies. All but the cookie container are set on the damp grass. “One dozen lavender chocolate chip cookies, boss.”

Erik accepts the offering in his left hand with a twist of his lips that is both a smile and exasperation rolled up in one. His right hand goes for one corner of the lid and begins to pry it from the container, but then he lets go. He smoothes the plastic back down with a thumb. “Good plan, Raven.”

Charles bites his lip at the sight. Not Erik’s smile, but the appreciation of the cookies and the secret knowledge of their origin. Raven has addicted her intimidating employer to one of the recipes Charles saved from their late paternal aunt’s estate auction. She’d had an obsession with flower-themed foods, French teas, and corgis.

Raven flicks her hair back in mock self-congratulation. “Yeah, I know.”

Erik shakes his head and Charles chuckles as Raven preens. Then Erik slips his feet into a pair of sandals and stands up. “I’ll be back around nine.”

Raven hands him the key ring. “As much as I want you to get some sleep, don’t forget about us, okay? Keep your phone on you.”

“You must be very tired.” Charles wants to shut up, but he also wants to know, wants to see the progress on the tattoo. “Raven said she did six hours of work last night.”

Erik shrugs. “I sat ten at a time for my black work.”

“Can I see the progress?”

For a moment there is only the sound of the rain on the canopy and the growing chill of evening. Erik’s eyes are on him, his body not moving but for his breathing. Raven stands next to Charles, waiting.

Finally, Erik slips the truck keys into his pocket and sets the container of cookies on the bench with the towels. He grabs the edge of his t-shirt’s neck and pulls it aside; it’s such an oversized fit that it easily reveals the two dragon heads and the beginning of its torso. The tattoo is dark with pigment, but the colors are indistinct in the lamp’s blue-white light.

Charles stares at the dark beast, at the bloodied head that rears back with the unicorn horn in its eye. There’s something compelling about it. Where’s the unicorn? Why would Raven show a symbol of purity killing one of the dragon heads? Or is the horn, being singular, a symbol of independence or solitude? And if so, is one or the other damaging an aspect of Erik’s personality?

“In a day or so it will scab a bit and look terrible,” Erik says and releases the fabric to conceal the design again, but the unwounded head still looms over the stretched-out cotton. “You’ll have to wear loose clothing like this, too.”

“Why wear a shirt at all?” Charles asks and then squawks in indignation as Raven pinches his arm.

“Hypocrite!” she cries, but then winks.

Erik acts as if no question was asked at all. He puts on his raincoat, takes the container of cookies, and heads into the rain with a simple wave on his way. “Nine o’clock.”

“Don’t eat ‘em all, Lehnsherr,” Raven says to his back. Then she turns to Charles, eyes and teeth shining slightly blue in the lantern light. “Let’s get this picnic started. There are bowls for the pasta and sauce plus I’ve got some garlic bread in there. The bench should be dry, so we can sit there while we eat.”

“We’re missing music,” Charles responds. He’s still a little distracted, watching Erik as he blends in with the darkness beyond the lantern’s light. “Shall I find a mutually admired playlist on my phone?”

“No,” Raven replies as she digs through the duffels, “that’ll kill your battery and I can only take so much classic rock, though I will take that over Erik’s latest thing for his German so-called post mortem folk; most of it sounds like a soundtrack for assisted suicide or that cannibal movie, _Ravenous_. I brought a radio if you want to set it to 89.9 on the FM dial, we can listen to classical. Or we can turn on the college station at 98.1 and listen to dueling hipsters.”

“As long as you don’t force me to listen to Wilco or cannibal folk music,” Charles says lightly and crouches down with Raven to find the bowls. “I think classical is probably our best bet. Though a soundtrack of cannibals eating Wilco might be acceptable.”

“I knew there was a reason I love you,” Raven says with clear approval ringing bright in her tone. She passes him a small radio. “89.9, please.”

Before long they are sitting on the garden bench, eating tortellini, drinking wine, and largely ignoring the music they chose. And laughing. Laughing at everything from their pranks on Kurt, to Charles’ awful break up stories, to Raven’s fight with a professor at SVU that culminated in a triptych of gigantic canvases featuring heavily textured close ups of vaginas and penises.

“Oh God,” Charles laughs. “The last time I was in Westchester, those still weren’t dry.”

“Did I ever tell you how much the paint cost?” Raven groans. “Like thousands of dollars. Just to piss off one person. It’s like those stories you hear of people throwing money at somebody to insult them. I could have made a piñata of that jerk out of hundred dollar bills and filled it with silver dollars and it would have been more effective and less expensive.”

“Plus beating it apart would have satisfied a performance art requirement _and_ an installation credit,” Charles chuckles.

“And been immensely satisfying. Three birds with one cricket bat.” Raven shakes her head. “So, speaking of vaginas and penises via my art, are you seeing anybody?”

Charles brings his wine glass up and takes a lingering sip. If there’s any topic he doesn’t want to talk about, it’s his hopeless love life. He takes the glass away from his lips, studies the strange play of the lantern light on the surface of the red and struggles with words.

“It depends on what you mean by seeing,” he finally admits. He doesn’t look at Raven as he speaks, concentrates on the wine and how it coats the glass as he swirls it. It’s a good wine; Sharon taught them well. “If you mean ‘having sex with’ then, yes, I’m seeing a couple people. If you mean ‘having a relationship with’ then, no, I broke up with Stuart, hence the ‘having sex with’ bit.”

“Stuart the fireman?” Raven’s face, seen through the wineglass bell is a funhouse distortion; much more amusing than the words coming out of her mouth. “Let me guess, he started to smother you?”

“He invited me to his parent’s house,” Charles snorts. “He wanted to introduce me to his parents, Raven, after dating only one month.”

“Wait.” Raven drops her fork and holds up one hand in a gesture for halt. “Didn’t you tell me his birthday party was going to be at his parents’ house? And what do you call the three months of sex that came before the dating, you know, when you were desperately in love? Was that not dating?”

“Are we having this conversation again?” Charles puts the wine glass down, no longer amused by its distortions.

“This doesn’t have to be uncomfortable, Charles,” Raven says. “Just… I never get to meet any of your lovers. I don’t really get to know what they’re like before you block them on Facebook. And, I don’t know, that Lisbeth lady seemed really smart and witty, if a little self-absorbed.”

“Lisbeth’s an alcoholic,” Charles sighs and places his free hand to his brow to cover his eyes. In hindsight, Lisbeth shared far too many of his mother’s bad habits than he would ever confide to Raven. “And she’s the one that broke up with me when I told her I loved her.”

“Angha! The poet! You met her at her book signing and for Valentine’s Day she posted that awesome poem on your Facebook wall!” Raven leans forward and places her hand on Charles’ knee; he tries to ignore the warmth of her palms.

“She always wanted to know where I was and what I was doing,” Charles says. His head leans further on his fingers, sending pressure down in a steady line to the elbow resting on his knee. “The poem was embarrassingly desperate. Raven, please, let’s not.”

In response, her fingers travel to the elbow that is digging further into his leg. He feels her eyes on him though his own are trained halfway down his wool sleeve.

“Charles,” Raven says quietly, earnestly. “I’m your sister and your friend and I love you. That means you can burden me with your problems. That’s what friends are for, even if family isn’t.”

It’s tempting, so tempting to lean on her just the tiniest bit. He doesn’t want to do it; she’s the one that needs him, not the other way around. But nobody else would ever understand, much less be allowed to see him so weak, so Charles tells himself it’s okay for just a minute. As long as there’s a limit, he can do it. He checks his watch, sets aside his wine glass, and removes the weight from his knee.

“The worst is after the dinner parties,” he confesses quietly. “I’m surrounded by people in my flat; the noise and the wine and the conversation and everything is so good. Sometimes somebody stays the night and that prolongs the resumption of silence. Sometimes I wake up and there’s a warm person next to me, breathing softly. But once they’re gone… I don’t know. It’s worse than if they were never there at all.”

“Sometimes,” Raven says, “the worst thing after Brian died was the silence. Sharon could be in the same room as I and never say a thing, never look at me, even when I would cry. Is it like that?”

Ravens palms are warm, but her fingers are cold. He wraps her hands in his and again leans his head down, this time on the mutual support of their joined hands. “It’s like there’s this silent, open space within me that is never filled. I don’t know how long it’s been there, maybe always, but I finally noticed it when I left for University.”

Raven leans her forehead against the top of his bowed head and whispers, “We need to talk more, be around for each other more. Could you maybe come stay in Portland for summer recess?”

“What, at your loft with the DJ and Spanish model?”

“Sean and Janos,” Raven huffs, a warm breath that dishevels his fringe. “Janos and his Russian boyfriend are having some issues. You might have a chance to grab some extremely hot Spanish ass on the rebound. If he wasn’t exclusively gay I might have jumped him a couple times before I met Hank.”

“I wouldn’t mind seeing the Columbia gorge,” Charles muses, ignoring Raven’s attempt to appeal to his libido, “and Multnomah Falls.”

“Erik could take you to the falls; he runs up the damn thing often enough,” Raven murmurs into his hair with distinct disgust. “The weather here’s much nicer than Oxford during summer. You should come.”

“Maybe.” Charles glances at his watch; it’s been more than two minutes. He squeezes her hands once more and releases his hold. “Maybe, but no promises.”

 

* * *

 

Erik would normally pass time down at Morpho chatting a little with Darwin or Kitty about activism, art, or business, but Saturday nights are open mic night at the vegan café. Darwin is exceptionally talented at marketing the event to hipsters and dyed-in-the-wool counterculture participants. The resulting crowd is huge and occasionally rowdy; though most people are committed to nonviolence. Erik isn’t good with loud noises or crowds, but he’s exceptionally talented at violence, so even though it is early yet, he doesn’t attempt to wade inside to get coffee.

He lets himself into Quicksilver and goes over Raven’s handwritten schedule, double checks the autoclave, and sets his work space up for a client that will be coming in at 10am. He’ll be doing touchup work on a tattoo that lost ink during an infection. Raven has already printed out another copy of their tattoo aftercare sheet, but this time she’s highlighted all the points specifically related to avoiding infections.

At noon he has a second consultation to finalize a design and at 2pm he has a young woman coming in for consultation about a nautical-themed back piece. At 4pm he’s got five hours blocked off for a detailed forearm piece. Sunday will be a busy day for him, but Raven has rescheduled herself for a light day: only one consultation. He’s amused to see _No walk-ins!_ underlined three times at the top of the page. Maybe she’s hoping she can leave early to see Charles off.

In anticipation of her possible absence, he retrieves his ‘NO sign’ from where it hangs near his desk. It’s a tin sign he painstakingly painted back when he opened his shop. The text is the Frakture he learned as a schoolboy in Germany, with pin-striped embellishments and flourishes.

The NO sign reports a list of services and styles Erik refuses to render and, before Raven started work with him, used to hang on his door every day. It isn’t an all-inclusive list, but hits all the usual suspects such as no hate imagery and no gang-related imagery. It goes on to include other subject matter he won’t do; no Polynesian or other tribal designs on non-native people, no flash art, no copies, no homage, no sports-related imagery. Before going on to list specific body parts he won’t work on; no eyes, no mucous membranes nor anything near them, no faces. He’s made exceptions to a few of his NOs, but they are rare rather than the rule.

Raven hates the sign, but Erik hates answering the same questions over-and-over, so he hangs it when she’s not there to compromise and answer the questions for him.

Erik is strong-willed enough to only eat one of the chocolate chip, lavender cookies as he leafs through the sketches that have led up to his current projects. He doesn’t usually have a sweet tooth; sweets remind him too much of his parents, particularly the honey-drenched apple latkes his mother used to make for Rosh Hashanah. The lavender is unusual enough that it fails to conjure ghosts from his days prior to Portland.

When he’s done, he places the plastic box on the bench between his small refrigerator and the steel sink he installed the winter prior. The tattoo shop is his baby and he’s always looking for ways to improve it. The cookies make him think a toaster oven might be the next addition.

The rain has not let up nor gotten heavier by the time he leaves to pick Raven and Charles up from the Rose Garden. Erik doesn’t mind; rain always seems to suit his mood. On the way to the garden he finds himself thinking about the touchup he’ll be doing in the morning. The touchup leads him to the aftercare sheet again, and that brings him to Charles. What would the best tattoo placement for a professor be? Would Charles have somebody to help him with aftercare or will it need to be easily accessible?

From there it isn’t hard to mentally strip Charles of his suit and begin to block off portions of his body with shapes, like living ink traveling over contour to fleshy contour. It’s a common method Erik uses to plan the shapes and placements of his designs. He’s seen enough, tattooed enough, sexual and sexualized portions of the human body that thinking of people naked rarely turns his crank.

But where he usually thinks of a client’s body as an upright structure, he imagines Charles’ as reclined. He’s never imagined moving the constantly changing blocking shapes across a client’s skin by hand, but he does that, too. And where there shouldn’t be a sense of sensation, Erik can feel heat and skin under his imaginary fingertips. He can even feel the rush of blood and the pins and needles of lust creeping into his cock, putting pressure on his balls.

The car behind Erik honks at him for sitting at a green light. Startled from his daydream, he swears and puts the truck back in gear and takes off. He continues to swear, because not only is he fantasizing about Raven’s brother, but he’s also just gotten himself half hard over him. Since it’s been a few months since he’s gotten laid and a week since he’s jerked off, he dismisses thoughts of Charles as biological needs.

Thoroughly annoyed with his lapse of control, he lifts his hips up to rearrange his cock so it bears a more comfortable left within his boxer briefs. The last thing he needs is to want to fuck Raven’s brother. Despite Raven’s words about Charles respecting him and his opinion, Erik considered him forbidden fruit the moment he discovered the two were related; adopted or not.

By the time he’s parked and walking through the rain toward the canopy, he’s almost reached zero from a slow count backwards from ten. He’s five minutes early, but experience should lead Raven to expect that from him.

The light from Raven’s camping lantern is moving across Raven and Charles’ bodies as they pack. The play of the light across them and the shadows they cast spark his recent imaginings and he again thinks of the best way to block out the tattoo shape, only without the nakedness.

The rain covers the sound of his arrival, so he stands still, rain pattering soothingly on his hood and with tiny, gentle concussions on the top of his feet. He watches from the wet and the dark and listens to the sound and pitch of their conversation. It reminds him of something he once had, someone he once loved, a life that is gone; dust in the wind.

Erik starts forward again, shaking his head within the hood to clear away the true dark; the dark of night can’t begin to compare. True dark follows violence, noise, and a flurry of sensation just beyond one’s fingertips.

They’ve almost finished packing; Raven is stuffing the last towel into the one unzipped duffel bag. She’s telling Charles about her plan to dye her hair red next week and he’s saying how lovely the blond is, but that he’s sure to take equally to red.

“I’ll get the canopy,” Erik says as a greeting. The lantern’s light moves over him but he doesn’t feel illuminated. Raven and Charles startle, but Erik is already moving toward the center of the shelter to unhook the lantern. He sets it on the ground and then reaches back up to collapse the canopy’s top. The hood of his rain coat slips off with the swivel of his chest and arms.

“Where’d you come from?” Raven asks and picks the lantern back up again. She holds it near his hands so he can better see his work.

“The shop.” Erik moves to the perimeter of the aluminum frame to unhook the sandbags he usually keeps in the back of the Frontier: a habit he brought with him from New York. “I saw a lot of eraser dust and correction tape in tomorrow’s schedule. You want some time off?”

“Yeah,” she says sheepishly. The plea comes with a display of her best puppy dog eyes. “Charles has a plane to catch tomorrow night and I was hoping to see him off.”

“If it’s no trouble,” Charles cuts in. He’s moved to the opposite side of the canopy to remove the other two sandbags.

“Do you want the first half or the second half of the day?” Erik asks. He never asks Raven to work the twelve-hour days he often has her schedule for him. “As long as you’re the only one driving, you can take the truck.”

“Charles gets out at two, so second half? He has to be at the airport by seven. I can get you dinner and be back to help with clean up and close after your four o’clock.”

Erik nods. “You won’t have to hurry back; that one might take longer than I quoted.”

“What kind of hours do you usually work?” Charles asks, his voice starts bright in curiosity, but is subdued by the last word. Erik’s not sure what to make of it.

“As many as I want.” He just happens to like a lot of them. “I don’t take walk-ins, so I can set my own hours. Raven’s free to work as many as she wants as long as she’s there when I need her.”

Raven sets down the lamp again and hefts one of the duffels. She comes over to Erik as he works. With the usual ease that comes with their friendship, she sticks her hand in his raincoat to fish out the truck keys. “What he’s not saying is that he needs me desperately because he works roughly sixty-hour weeks.”

“Front right,” Erik says and Raven’s hand goes up the loose shirt and down his pants pocket. She takes the keys out with one hand and reaches up to smack his shoulder with the other.

“I’ll be right back. Don’t dump the rain in the canopy all over Charles, okay?”

Erik shrugs. “Don’t get mugged.”

She pulls her hood up and heads out into the rain. Charles moves to follow her, but Erik shakes his head. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” Charles snaps, exasperated. His eyes are wide, pupils dilated beyond what the low light calls for.

“Don’t follow her to protect her from my facetious muggers.” Erik begins collapsing the frame at each of the corners. “She’s a big girl.”

He sees the proverbial hackles rise along Charles’ back in response; Erik finds himself inordinately pleased. “Who are you to keep telling me how to behave around my sister? You’ve never said you have one of your own.”

“You’re right,” Erik says without looking at Charles. He’d like to look up from his work, just to see what sort of affect his words have, but he wants to get the frame back to Darwin before the crowd gets thicker at Morpho. “I never said. But even without a sister I know the difference between a sibling and a parent.”

Erik hears Charles take in a breath to respond, but the expected repartee never comes. Though he wants to keep to himself, Erik takes a glance over at Raven’s overbearing brother. Charles’ fists are back in his trouser pockets, his stance again solidly defensive. His bright eyes squint under an intense look of concentration, of which Erik finds himself the focus.

“You.” Charles says, his voice solid and unyielding as steel. “Are you aware what an asshole you are?”

It takes more will power than Erik thought to hold back a smirk. Maybe Raven is right; maybe he does get under Charles’ skin. He’s sure Raven mentioned it because she wants him to like her brother, but maybe there could be something more.

No, he reminds himself, Raven’s brother is off limits. Not just because he’s her brother but for the same reason Raven doesn’t want to tattoo him. The last thing he wants is for the tattoo to become an eternal memorial of a one-night stand or an awkward seduction.

Regardless of Erik’s nonresponse, Charles forges on. “Are you trying to make me mad? Are you taking advantage of the tension between my sister and me for sport?”

 _Good question_ , Erik thinks. But even if he is, Charles’ self-centeredness is showing and opens him up enough for Erik to make another jab. “You think I’m using Raven to make you angry? That’s an impressive attempt to reframe the argument to cut her out of it.”

“You aren’t denying,” Charles challenges quietly.

Erik shrugs; he feels the loose cotton stick a bit on his tattoo in the process. “Is there a reason you want to think this is about you and I rather than about you and Raven?”

His hands stay in his pockets, still balled into fists, but Charles advances, in Erik’s rain boots no less, until his nose is mere inches from Erik’s chin. Charles moistens his lips with a quick swipe of his tongue. “You should be aware that I am the type of person to consider all possible motives. It’s what makes me a good scientist.”

Without consciously thinking about it, Erik releases the aluminum frame. His hands curl into fists, one of which catches around a handful of Charles’ vest. He feels it in him, the roiling desire to do more. To either use the fist holding Charles to keep him in place while the other fist comes into repeated and violent connection with his puckish face or to drag him forward into something far more disturbing. It’s all horribly, horribly wrong either way, but he knows for certain if he starts with violence he’ll end up back behind bars. This is why Erik contents himself with masturbation and one-night stands. This is why he avoids relationships; because deep down, he suspects he’s a monster.

Later, he will castigate himself and tell himself he was responding to Charles’ proximity, his fists digging into his trousers, and the intense glare in Charles’ eyes, or maybe the wide span of his pupils and brief moistening of Charles’ lips. Now, Erik carefully, slowly, uncurls his fingers from Charles’ vest and drags his eyes from the incredulous glare.

He turns stiffly back to his work, making a point to angle his body away from Charles’. “Consider me aware.”

Charles doesn’t change his stance, though his hands come out of his pockets and hover in loose fists above his thighs. The rain hitting the plastic above their heads doesn’t drown out the tension that reigns between them for several tense seconds. It’s only interrupted by the approaching sounds of Raven’s purple boots as she nears the canopy.

“No,” Charles finally huffs, though he takes a healthy backward step in the process. “No, I’m not going to pretend that you didn’t just do that.”

“Good,” Erik replies. “I wouldn’t want to waste the moment.”

Raven’s proximity prevents Charles from saying more. With her help, it takes little time to pack the blue plastic up and for Erik to return the frame to its compact size. They stow the equipment and pack Raven into the Frontier’s crampt half cab. She keeps the mood lively by talking to Charles after her attempts to draw Erik in fail. Erik hardly notices them, so caught up in counting, breathing, and trying to look normal

Running on autopilot, Erik drops Charles off first and then Raven, but takes the canopy back to his apartment rather than risk further incident with the throng at Morpho. Erik strips to his boxers before walking around his loft, opening all the windows a few inches to get cold, humid air circulating. The scent of rain and old incense swirls around the place while he tends his tattoo. It’s still smooth, but he anticipates the dragon will be a bit scabbed or flaking by tomorrow. The injured head seems more appropriate tonight.

He retrieves a box of sandalwood incense, a plate for ashes, and a stale pack of cigarettes from the same kitchen cabinet. Apartment lit by his laptop’s backlight and the tiny tips of sandalwood sticks and a cigarette, Erik ends the evening on his couch. By morning, the smell of cigarettes will overpower the incense and his tattoo will itch.

 

* * *

 

Back in his hotel room, Charles charges immediately into the bathroom, strips the layers of his suit off and leaves them in haphazard heaps. He sets the shower to full blast and throws himself immediately within the pounding spray to scour unwanted lust from his mind and blood stream. Attraction to the worst possible candidate is so typical of him he wants to bash his fists against the shower’s tiles.

Charles can’t decide if it’s better to have the water burning hot or ice cold. Thoughtlessly, he opts for cold and ends up with a sensation akin to Portland’s rain. When the frigid water doesn’t do in his hard on, he takes his cock in hand and enjoys the juxtaposition of cold water on heated skin. Sometimes the best way to get rid of an unwanted erection is just to ride it out.

As he jerks viciously at his cock, he emphatically does not imagine an amorous struggle with a tall, tattooed man in the rain. Doesn’t lift his right foot onto the bath’s edge so he can thrust into the tight squeeze of his left hand and comfortably finger himself with the right. Doesn’t imagine that man fucking him over the park bench in the rain, in the muddy grass, or on the path. He certainly doesn’t come so hard in the shower that his balls ache spectacularly with the clench of it. Nor does he collapse, exhausted and still wet, on his bed only moments later.

But Charles does dream, because he can forget those. Just like he will try to forget how alone he is in the morning.


	4. St. Charles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t know if Kitty Pryde’s Jewish background is Ashkenazi, Mizrahi or Sephardic, but I’ve gone with Rhodesli Sephardic to reflect Portland’s Rhodesli community.
> 
> Also, warning, there's a bit of violence and self harm in this chapter.
> 
> Lastly, huge thanks and love to Synekdokee who drew [fabulous fanart of Raven](http://synekdokee.tumblr.com/post/57731603342/fanart-for-my-sweet-wife-euphorbics-new-tattoo)!

 

_St. Charles_

As is his routine, Erik goes to his crossfit class before heading in to Quicksilver. If he’s even more intense than usual, nobody in the reclaimed space mentions it. He stops by Morpho on the way to give Darwin back the canopy and buy an Americano. It’s almost 7am and Morpho already has people sitting outside talking and smoking. They avoid the sporadic drizzle by taking up the line of mismatched chairs that span the shop’s faded green awning. More than a few of Morpho’s regulars look like their Saturday night has run into Sunday morning. Most are smoking hand-rolled cigarettes.

The secondhand smoke activates Erik’s salivary glands; he’d really like a good cigarette after a night spent smoking old tobacco on his couch. The question is whether or not it would be worth hearing from Raven about it after he showers and brushes his teeth.

He walks past the assembly of artists and hipsters, anarchists and hacktivists, and into Morpho’s welcoming atmosphere. There’s a collection of art on the wall that Darwin has been raving about from an artist out of the Detroit area. Erik likes the color, organic shapes, and commentary on body image the work represents. If the artist is amenable, he wouldn’t mind having her work in his gallery space, though he usually keeps his walls open to local artists or traveling tattooists.

There’s a short queue for the counter, but Kitty still grins at him when he steps to the back of it with the canopy under his arm. He’s sure she’d wave if her hands weren’t full frothing non-dairy milk.

“Good morning, Erik!” she chirps. If he were ten years younger he might be smitten, but he’s fifteen years older so he secretly finds her adorable, like a kid sister he never had. “Darwin’s in the storage room, so you can just take that straight back.”

He nods wordlessly and heads to the storage room to the left of the unisex toilets. He finds Darwin inside the room counting packs of takeout cups. Darwin doesn’t glance over, but he nods: Kitty’s greeting was loud enough that pleasantries are largely unnecessary. “Hey there Erik, you have a bad night?”

“No,” Erik lies immediately. In the next instant he damns Darwin’s precise insights. Erik reaches for a little added misdirection. “You know I don’t like crowds.”

The tall, thin man makes a mark on his notepad and then finally looks at Erik. Darwin is one of the few people in the area that is tall enough to look into Erik’s eyes comfortably and he does so with an ease that says that even with a height disparity he’d do it anyway.

“Brother, you know you reek of sweat and cigarettes,” Darwin says, his dark eyes frank. “But whatever, I know how you are.”

“Where do you want this?” Erik’s glad that Darwin’s indicated that he won’t pry; it always puts him on the defensive even when he knows it’s well-meaning. Years of Moira hounding him for detailed recitations of where he was planning to go and where he’d been have usurped those of his mother’s well-meant nagging. Now inquiries, especially dogged ones, are deeply aggravating.

Darwin gestures to the far corner of the dimly lit room. “I hope Raven had a good night with her brother, at least.”

“They must have.” Both of them are thin, but it’s still a bit of a trick to slip by Darwin with the canopy frame and cover. It’s awkward; as he sidesteps past the bagged frame bumps his healing tattoo which renews the itching it’s been doing all morning. “They were both intact when I picked them up. I had a disagreement with her brother, though.”

Erik hears Darwin ‘hmm’ but say nothing else. Erik is reminded how much he appreciates having the level-headed man as a friend and a business neighbor.

He sets the canopy down in the indicated corner and looks around the small room. Darwin and Alex built most of the shelving; it’s good solid work. The lighting, however, is left over from the previous occupant and is a work in progress. They’ve set money aside for improving the seating area’s exterior and for eventually buying the space next to them so they can expand. The room needs better lighting, but the customer area has priority.

“I can do the lighting in here if you want,” Erik offers. He wouldn’t normally offer, but he values Darwin and even his crew of eccentric baristas.

“You an electrician, too?” Darwin’s thoughtful expression turns to mischief. “You certainly are a jack of all trades, Lehnsherr.”

“I had some vocational training back in New York,” Erik shrugs. He’s disinclined to say where and how he got the training. “Just pick out what you want and I’ll put it in for you.”

“Sounds like you’re angling for a few months of free watered down espresso,” Darwin laughs. “When you going to start drinking espresso like all the big kids?”

Erik shrugs. “I like having something I can keep drinking. Espresso’s good, but like any shot the effect lasts longer than the taste.”

“Yeah,” Darwin smiles, “I don’t want to see you after six shots of espresso anyway. I have this feeling you’d tear the place apart or something. Alex after six is an unholy terror and you two kids share a lot of traits.”

Erik nods, a hint of a snort escaping him at the idea of Darwin’s partner hopped up on caffeine. It’s probably happened more than once. “Actually, it isn’t a coffee exchange I have in mind. Raven’s doing her journeyman piece and I think that justifies a show for her work. You interested in arranging a Last Thursday event?”

“I do all your Last Thursdays billings,” Darwin chuckles and leans back against the wall. “Which one? July or August, maybe September? Too late for June, man, if you want it done right.”

Last Thursdays are usually a chaotic affair along Alberta Street, but their corner is far enough away from the street festival atmosphere that street performers and the massive crowds don’t lap up against their walls. Erik is profoundly grateful for that; the noise and unpredictability of the massive crowds agitate him like nothing else. The few times he’s found himself in the area on a Last Thursday made him feel like a bottle of nitroglycerine, just waiting for the jostle that would lead to an explosion.

“I’ll send her down to you to work out details later this week,” Erik replies and leans one shoulder against the same wall. “I prefer July, but it’ll be up to her how she wants to do it. If you have a line on a music act, I might risk our landlady’s wrath and get the roof set up.”

Both Darwin’s eyebrows rise at that. “Been too long since we had a rooftop party. Let me think about it.”

Erik nods and begins to push away from the wall, but Darwin holds a hand up and Erik subsides again. “Actually, you can still angle for that coffee; I’d like somebody to paint our front door with our name and hours. You still pin striping?”

“As long as you don’t tell the women at Triple Cha lingerie,” Erik agrees. “I charged them hourly for their display window.”

“Erik,” Darwin drawls, mischief alive in his rich brown eyes, “I somehow doubt the ladies down the street thought they could pay you with lingerie and vibrators.”

Darwin laughs when Erik shakes his head. He twirls his pencil once and places it behind his ear so he can hold his dark hand out. “Done deal?”

Erik acquiesces and takes Darwin’s hand in his for a deal-binding shake. “Done. When Raven comes down later,” Erik continues, sliding back past Darwin, “give her a mock up of your window so I can plan for it. As for the lighting, my Monday and Tuesday mornings are usually open.”

Kitty has his coffee in a cup with his name on it plus merry flowers and happy faces drawn all over the paper surface. There’s also a brown paper bag waiting for him when he comes out. Kitty has her sketchbook on the counter since there aren’t any customers waiting. Erik nods at her, ignores the cup’s fresh illustrations for the doodles she’s drawn on the wrist of her long sleeved undershirt.

“My mom got a new boyo recipe,” she says without preamble. “And she was really impatient to try it out. Not that I’m complaining ‘cause they’re pretty awesome.”

Most of the Jews Erik runs into in Portland are descendants of Sephardic diaspora that left Rhodes before and during the Shoah. Kitty has ancestors that go back a hundred years in Portland and multiple centuries in the former Ottoman Empire. She also has a mother that reminds him painfully of his own with her tough, but overwhelming love.

Erik eyes the bag of spinach pastries suspiciously; they’re a Rhodesli specialty Kitty’s mother usually only makes for high holidays. “Those aren’t meant to woo me into going to Ahavath Achim, are they? I told her I’m not visiting any congregation of any kind.”

Kitty rolls her hazel eyes and crosses her arms under her chest. “You know my mom sees your atheism through a dark glass. Anyway, no, the boyos are just more of her gastronomic affection.”

It’s been a year and it’s still hard to accept Kitty’s mother’s gifts; he remembers her shocked expression when she looked at his business card. Kitty had said he was an artist and Erik had said he was a small business owner. With his tattoos covered, she likely had thought he was a good candidate for somebody’s daughter. Accordingly, she saw the tattoo part of ‘Quicksilver Tattoos’ and was caught flat-footed. The memory of the deep lines of censure and dismay are as indelible as any of his tattoos, written as they were in the geography of her face.

Erik takes the coffee and reaches for her sketchbook. With a mad grin she hands him the Sharpie she uses to write names, and draw flowers, on customer cups. “Lockheed, okay?”

“You and that iguana,” Erik snorts, but he takes the marker and draws a quick caricature of the lizard inside a coffee cup, his tail and his head and claws hanging over the edge. The cup is at an angle, tipping precariously, the moment before an inevitable spill. As a final touch, he writes Kitty’s name in a messy scrawl on the cup, mimicking her handwriting.

“I wish I could do it,” she says the moment he caps the marker. He knows what she means, what she’s going to say, before the sound escapes her. Her olive-skinned hands reach out and turn the sketchbook around so she can better look at the drawing. A wistful smile adorns Kitty’s young face. Her eyes follow the marker’s inked path across the page. Finally, the thought reaches her mouth, “Get a tattoo.”

There’s nothing to say that he hasn’t already said to her on this topic; it’s an old conversation they’ve had in the coffee house, up in Quicksilver’s gallery space, and out around the neighborhood. He’s gone so far as to draw her mother’s horrified expression in the sketchbook to drive the point home.

He says nothing about it, but flips the cover of her sketchbook over to close on her fingers. The bag of boyos is easy to lift off the counter after that. “Give your mother my thanks.”

Kitty deflates, and darts out a hand to the one he has around the coffee cup. Her eyes are big and sad, her mouth a repentant press of lips. “I’ll tell her.”

Instead of going back to his place to shower, Erik goes around the corner and up the stairs to Quicksilver. The shop’s shower is small; just a space originally intended to house a mop and bucket and the like, but he couldn’t leave it alone. He sets the paper bag on the container of cookies and hits the finished bathroom.

The water takes a few moments to come out warm; he lets it run as hot as he can stand. He strips in the open hallway opposite the sink and half-size refrigerator while the water warms. The dragon tattoo is flaking more than scabbing; it doesn’t look bad at all. He’s mindful of it when he steps into the steaming spray and proceeds to scrub the rest of his skin and scalp with hard motions.

The problem with his showering method is the sensitivity awakened in his skin once he’s scoured it. Sensitivity that does him no good once he begins to soap up the nooks and crannies of his ass and cock. Annoyed, but ultimately accepting of his body’s desires, he sets aside the soap and rough, natural sponge he was using and sweeps his left hand up his hardening cock. Just a quick wank to relieve the pressure, he thinks.

It proves to be the catalyst needed to open up the wealth of memory that’s been lingering around his rough edges all morning. Drugged edges of lust feed him the texture of the fabric in his fist last night: smooth, silky, expensive. The cast of Charles’ particularly blue eyes: wide pupils, dark in the cold LED light, brow low with anger. The movement of his sensual lips: the run of his tongue tip as it pierced their seam and swept the span.

Other than the idiocy with Raven, it’s been years since Erik’s felt chemistry with anyone and to feel that heavy warmth triggered by her brother, her patronizing, smothering, classist brother, is disconcerting. Rejection rises sudden and phoenix-like from his gut on wings of consuming fury.

Erik hears the collision, feels the tremble all the way to the floor, sees the rattle of the shower’s glass door, before he feels any pain at all. The skin over his knuckles burns like a fresh tattoo under the hot water, the knuckles themselves radiate pain. Even his wrist aches from the impact of his fist against the shower wall.

The wall is plastic over drywall; it looks dented. There are a few spots of thin skin sticking to the surface. He’s just glad he used his right hand and not the left which is gripping his cock. Then he remembers he has a full day of work ahead of him that is heavily dependent on his wrist.

He starts jerking off anyway. His left hand delivers swift, perfunctory strokes with no mind for prolonging pleasure. _Forget it. Just get the job done,_ he thinks _, and bring on the endorphins._

For several minutes he courts the obliteration of orgasm and pleasure comes close while he fucks his hand, but repeatedly falls away. After a few fruitless minutes, his cock starts to lose its stiffness. Completion is nowhere near, though his balls and groin ache with tension. Swearing again, he releases his uncooperative flesh and slaps the water off.

Sexual frustration isn’t new; there have been other times in the past when he couldn’t get off, but it’s been more than a year since the last time. It’s his frustration with the situation; rejection of something he feels helpless to avoid. He wants to punch the wall again, but this time he recognizes the anger is there and can defuse the situation before he makes things worse.

Before leaving the shower, he stands quietly in the stall and tilts his head back and holds his hands open, palms out at his sides. He breathes. He remembers his counselor, her calm, droning voice, and breathes the way she instructed him.

It takes a while for his heart rate to slow, but he waits; he doesn’t want to lose the control he’s taken back over the years. As soon as his heart rate begins to subside, he steps out of the stall and dries off. Towel tied around his waist, he leaves the bathroom and immediately dumps his Americano in the sink; the last thing he needs is caffeine constricting his veins.

He stalks through the gallery space to the work area’s shelves and pauses to pick through his incense collection for the box of aloes wood and a lighter. With those in his hands, he retreats to the bare walls and threadbare rug of the back room. There’s only the one window but he opens it and sets the incense up in the sill where a wooden dish filled with sand and ashes expects him.

A practiced flick of his thumb on the lighter’s wheel brings its flame alive. He touches it to a bundle of five sticks and places them in the sand. Leaving the box and lighter on the sill with the dish, Erik backs away and settles down cross-legged on the floor. The cool air and incense smoke drift over him as he begins the breathing exercises once more.

It isn’t much past 9:30 when Raven finds him; she wakes him gently with his phone from the backroom doorway. Once again, he’s glad he took a chance on the SVA dropout; he’s thankful he has her in his life despite the trouble she’s unwittingly brought into his careful structure.

She doesn’t ask why he’s sleeping on the floor with just a towel around his waist or why his right hand’s knuckles are skinned. This isn’t the first time she’s found him asleep in his back room with bruised knuckles or worse. He has no intention of telling her that this time it isn’t from his crossfit class or the punching bag in his loft.

It’s a good thing he keeps a change of clothing at the shop, she says. He shrugs, but agrees verbally when his 10 o’clock touchup client shows up fifteen minutes early.

 

* * *

 

Charles has all his bags packed for his noon checkout and is wearing his last clean suit. He’s sitting next to the picture window of his hotel room blankly staring at the WillametteRiver. It isn’t raining, but there’s still heavy cloud cover. If not for the West Hills’ greenery the whole cityscape would be an uninspiring grey.

At his feet is a folded Brooks Brothers shopping bag, in his hands is a rain boot which is only a little worn down at the heel and ball of foot. His thumbs tap a haphazard beat out on the rubber sole. If it were the staccato background to a song, Charles would call it the discontented tango.

He has a vague recollection of dreams from last night, but they’re more feelings than pictures. Charles thanks his subconscious for having a modicum of decency in that regard. If only he could say the same for the twinges his body keeps telegraphing to his brain. His groin aches distantly from his shower and his ass is vaguely uncomfortable from fingering himself: water is rarely suitable lubrication.

Leaving Portland will be both a relief and a pain. The silence of Raven’s absence in his daily life is always hard, though he’s loath to admit it. When she visits, they always end up sleeping together in his bed; arms tangled around one another, sometimes her hair in his face, but always touching like they’ve roped one another in with spiritual umbilical cords. He doesn’t really want to share their womb with her brilliant boyfriend; it’s empty enough as it is.

In Oxford he’s always looking for similar ties and sooner or later he finds them ill-fitting. Too loose or too constrictive; sometimes one becomes the other. Thus far he shares no similar space with anyone. He has many acquaintances, a Facebook with nearly a thousand connections. A few of those connections he’s even close to, but nothing like the openness he has with Raven. None of the responsibility he feels for her, either.

Later today he’ll board another plane and leave her behind; the sister who has always been his unexpected, constant gift.

Later today he’ll board a plane and leave behind a conundrum, too. He can feel the rough edges of the twine that represents Erik Lehnsherr, or maybe he isn’t the temptation of earthen hemp, but the heated scales of constricting coils.

“Don’t romanticize it,” Charles whispers to the sinuous river beyond the glass, “he’s an ass and you always fall for the assholes. Not that he even has much of an ass.”

Annoyed, his fingers curl and bring his fingernails into scraping contact with the boot’s rubber. He reminds himself how patronizing Erik is, how rude, how his wide mouth rarely opens onto pleasant words. How badly he wanted to silence him with kisses or punch him the moment Erik’s long-fingered hand had curled around Charles’ vest.

Charles rears his right arm back and slings it forward with every ounce of strength his boxing days have provided him. The boot narrowly misses the hotel room’s entertainment center. It hits the wall, likely startling his neighbors, and rebounds onto the floor near his suit case and garment bag. Charles glares at the second boot by his feet; he feels no sympathy or remorse for throwing the first and he doubts he’ll feel any if he throws this one, too. But he won’t, because he’s in control and he knows just exactly what he’ll do with it.

The last of his day is a blur, though he’s sharp as ever for his colleague’s seminar. It goes well even if he’s distracted with a myriad of thoughts about Raven, her boyfriend, and her mentor’s sharp words. What could he expect from somebody that comes from such a coarse background, though? What kind of person overlooks one’s heritage and goes into a trade that pierces skin and spills blood, that makes permanent marks on living bodies? What does Raven see in him?

Raven seems happy, but he still doesn’t understand how she can be satisfied with an art form that’s an elevated form of butchery. Despite the sheer cheek involved with her huge reproductive triptych, he’s always thought fine art was better suited to her. Perhaps that’s where Hank comes in. Raven has always been smart and quick-witted; she needs intellectual challenges and in Charles’ absence, she has Hank to provide her mental stimulation. Erik might know things, he might be knowledgeable, but there’s danger in mistaking knowledge for intelligence.

The seminar runs a little after two. Everyone who has imminent flights to catch disperse amid hopes to see colleagues soon and excitement in continuing new, and renewing old, relations over convenient mediums. Charles loses himself in the press of the remaining intellectuals. This is where he feels the most alive; interacting with others, bouncing ideas about, challenging and being challenged in turn.

In these circles Charles creates a safe and buoyant atmosphere with his charm, quick wit, and his shameless ability to stoop to using horrible genetics jokes that invite people to not only laugh with him, but at him. He’s often said to be the life of the party and as such, he has a gravity that many orbit around. But sometimes he thinks he exerts himself so because without the party, he doesn’t feel alive.

Once again, it’s up to Raven to find him and extract him from a bevy of scholarly acquaintances. This time she wears a gauzy scarf and a tight, green t-shirt with a white screen-print depicting a skull vomiting intestines. The shirt sleeves are long enough to cover the snakes on her arms.

“Is this one of your drawings?” he asks, laughing, because the screen-print subject matter might be disgusting, but it isn’t etched into her skin.

She slips her arm around his and bumps her hip into him affectionately. “Nope, it’s one of Erik’s. Next time Darwin and Erik get drunk and decide to do some screen prints I’ll get in on it and make you something.”

“You have a friend named Darwin?” Charles asks as they head for the front lobby’s baggage room. He tries not to think about Erik and the presence of his art on his sister’s body. There’ve already been a few uncomfortable hints that the two might have dated and, for the sake of his sanity, he doesn’t want any further evidence.

Raven nods merrily. “Yep. It’s his nickname because he’s a survivor. He owns the vegan café we’re always going to. He used to be a cab driver, then he owned a food cart with his partner Alex. They saved up and bought the space for the café five years ago.”

She pauses in her story as Charles claims his baggage and then they head outside to Erik’s black truck.

“Darwin’s been a galvanizing force in the community and a stabilizing one, too. Morpho, Triple Cha lingerie, and the four-floor indie art gallery across from them are the cornerstones of our area. Erik and the letterpress shop below Quicksilver came in a little later. The bunch of them are kind of the tastemakers in our corner of the neighborhood.”

That’s certainly some food for thought, Charles thinks. Perhaps with a gallery of such size so close, Raven might have a chance for a big show. Even if her work is in the more disreputable side of the art world, sometimes such things are elevated. It gives him a little hope for her and brings a small smile to his lips.

The rain has eased back to a mere spitting; not enough to warrant running to the truck. They walk together with Charles’ rolling suitcase and garment bag of suits and together they load them in the Frontier’s half cab.

The drive to the airport is filled with idle chitchat, mostly Charles telling Raven about people he saw over the last few days. It gets more serious when they arrive at PDX and Raven asks him if he’s thought about spending a couple weeks of the summer recess in Portland.

“C’mon,” Raven wheedles, “even if there’s no Spanish model ass in it for you, Janos and I have awesome taste in wine. Janos is really good at mixing drinks and Sean’s an amazing DJ. You get to stay with me in our drafty, hipster loft. You and Hank can get to know each other better. And you and Erik can better collaborate on your tattoo. It’ll be perfect.”

A first Charles just stares at Raven and the incongruence that just flew out of her mouth. Knowing her, she’s said everything exactly the way she meant to, slyly putting disturbing notions right alongside pleasant ones as if there should be no distinguishing between them. He has no intention of letting her frame things that way. But Charles doesn’t want to talk about Erik, either, because Raven is too smart for her own good and he desperately doesn’t want her to figure him out until after he’s left. He looks down at the Brooks Brothers bag and sighs.

“I hope you understand that getting to know Hank better doesn’t equate me liking or approving of him more than I already do.” Charles looks up again to see her expression to fall even as he says it. When her face falls, he sees it in every line that forms and deepens around her eyes and mouth. “He’s intelligent, there’s no question of that, but I know that intelligence alone isn’t going to satisfy you. You’re an extrovert Raven; you need the late nights and the excitement just as much as I do. You’ll wear him out eventually.”

Eyes still on her, he sees her chest rise as her lungs fill. “Charles, why don’t you just hold off on all this white knight, big brother, bullshit until he and I have at least lived together? His introversion is actually really grounding. And, yes, I like late nights, but when I sleep late, that give him the quiet mornings he wants. So it works when he stays here with me and when I go stay with him.”

“You say that now,” Charles sighs, “but I’m just trying to save you the—

“Quit trying to save me,” Raven sighs.

“—time and trouble of discovering it on your own. Believe me, I’ve cocked things up—

“And you’ll keep doing it.”

“—often enough. I want you to learn from my mistakes, not repeat them.”

“I want to live my own life,” Raven says in a loud voice. She’s already parked and turned off the engine, but now she just sits, staring straight forward in the driver’s seat. “You fuck yours up all you want, but let me fuck up my own by myself.”

Charles takes a breath to continue the argument but Raven shakes her head viciously. “No, Charles, no. We’ve only a few hours left together until who knows when. Don’t fuck it up with all this patronizing, big brother crap. I don’t really remember much of Brian and Sharon was a shit mother, but I don’t need them anymore than I need the biological ones that got rid of me. And I don’t need an older brother, either.”

She lets go of the steering wheel and turns to Charles with a bleak, little smile. At the mention of her biological parentage, Charles’ discerning gaze focuses on her smile, looks for the silvery traces on and above her lip that most people never notice. It’s hiding under her usual foundation and lipstick. “I just need a friend. You’re my friend, Charles.”

At her words and the sad look in her eyes, his shoulders slump and the fight leaves him with a tired sigh. They have only three more hours before he needs to go through security and catch his flight to Vancouver. He doesn’t want to part from her on such a sour note.

“I’m sorry Raven, but I’m your brother, too, and that isn’t going change. You need me to be both, but you’re too stubborn to admit that. But let me soften that with this.” He sets the Brooks Brothers bag on the truck’s floor and reaches for her cool hands. Once he has them folded within his, he looks up into her eyes and says the words that he imagines are just as hard for her. “You’re my sister and I need you, too.”

She sighs and leans toward him until the seatbelt catches her body just short of his, then she turns one hand up in his and squeezes the fingers that cover it. “I know, but like I tried to tell you yesterday. You want to protect me and help me carry the weight, but you never let me help you. We’re not equal. ”

The problem is that Charles has heard variations on this complaint before, but it usually comes in the context of a break up.

 

* * *

 

True to her word, Raven shows up at Quicksilver a few minutes after 8pm. Erik glances up long enough to check it’s her and sees she’s carrying a bag of take out and a Brooks Brothers shopping bag. He wipes his client’s skin clean again and lowers the tattoo machine. The man is too tired to say much of anything; Erik prefers it that way.

He’s been bent over this client’s forearm on and off since five o’clock and his lower back is beginning to get to him. The harsh black work was finished an hour ago and thinks it will be two and a half hours more before the intricate color will be complete. The hardest part, tattooing along the client’s ulna, is going slowly. With back pieces Erik can have clients move to minimize tattooing directly over their shoulder blades, but it’s impossible to avoid major bones like this.

To make matters worse, the man he’s been tattooing is lean; there’s been little to shield him from the machine’s needle when it buzzes against his bones. They’re both doing their best, Erik thinks, but the client’s twitching and squirming is taking a five hour job and turning it into six. If the client hadn’t flown out from Chicago to get this piece Erik would send him home. Instead he considers offering a face-saving break; it will hurt even more when they resume, but he thinks the man might be good for another forty-five minutes or so.

“I need to talk to my assistant,” Erik says. “Let’s take ten minutes.”

The client nods readily and lets Erik clean the ink off his arm again before pulling his earbuds out. Erik watches him take a shaky breath. “I’m really sorry; I’m having an off day.”

“It isn’t unusual,” Erik says. “It’s like I told you during consultation; the skin on the underside of your forearm and the bone that runs down from your elbow make this a painful tattoo.”

The client sighs. “Yeah, just thought I could tough it out better than this.”

If Erik made every client that said the same thing pay double, he thinks he could have amassed a retirement fund by now. He simply nods and sets his machine on its stand. “If you’re running out of juice or food, Raven won’t mind picking up something for you from the coffee shop next door. She’s done it before.”

The man stands up slowly and shakes his head. “I might take you up on that later, but I’ve still got enough provisions.”

He shuffles away, out to the gallery space and presumably to the bathroom while Erik cleans the work area once again and throws away yet another pair of gloves. Inside Quicksilver he’s fastidious in the extreme; in their business that’s never a bad thing. He looks through the open area in the railroad tie wall where Raven has set down both bags and is going through their voice mail.

“Brooks Brothers?” he calls.

“The boots you loaned Charles. He says thank you, by the way.” Raven looks up from the business line. “And I picked up some bibim bap from one of the Korean carts for you.”

Erik resists the strong impulse to tip the Brooks Brothers bag forward and peer inside; it isn’t likely that his rain boots will look any different than they did before he loaned them out. Instead he picks up his tepid bottled water and takes a long drink. It gives him time to think, to decide whether he wants to ask about her emotional state after seeing her brother off.

“Kitty’s mom made boyos,” he says, rather than ask about her or Charles. Having avoided thinking about his attraction to Charles most of the day, he finds himself curiously weak to temptation when faced with evidence of Charles’ presence.

A snort lifts a lock of hair off Raven’s face. “Is that a food thing? Because you should have told me you didn’t need dinner.”

“I had some for lunch,” he replies smoothly, “and I was thinking of sharing, but now I’m rethinking that offer.”

Raven sighs. Erik notes the slump of her shoulders under the layered gauze of her raw silk scarf. He finally admits he’s being more of a dick than usual by ignoring Raven’s emotional state. Long, unhurried strides bring him around the wall where he can place a hand on her elbow. “Your brother’s plane leave on time?”

“Yeah.” He sees her eyes are dry, but her mascara and eyeliner are long since smudged. When her gaze comes in contact with his he can also see her makeup could soon face a new threat. She drops her head, lets it collide heavily with the black side of his chest. “What do you do when the most important person in your life doesn’t approve of the second most important person in your life?”

While Erik is tempted to make a joke about her employer actually being the most important person in her life, he holds back. “You don’t do anything, because it isn’t your problem. What Charles thinks, what Hank thinks, you can’t do anything about.”

Her sigh transmits heat and humidity through his shirt to warm his chest. “Why do I care so much about what he thinks?”

Erik frowns at the question, but refuses to recast it into the shape he desires. “Because he’s your brother and you love him.”

“Yeah.” Her head doesn’t move from his chest, which would be fine if her breathing against his skin wasn’t a little on the arousing side after his failed attempt at masturbation that morning.

Gently, he grasps her biceps and pushes her back a safe distance. “You want to get drinks after work and talk about it?”

“Love to,” she says, all the weariness weighing down every word, “but Hank goes back to Corvallis tonight and I’d like to see him before he goes. How about tomorrow morning? I happen to know your Mondays are totally dead.”

Her dark eyebrows rise in a hopeful look. He’s good at disappointing people he’s close to, but he sees no need this time. “I’ll come over at nine. Besides, I need to get more information about your brother if I’m going to design something he won’t hate.”

When his client comes back from the bathroom, Erik releases Raven’s arms after a light squeeze and ducks under the noren, back to their work space. He cleans his machine, changes needles, disinfects his client again, and goes back to work.

An hour later, the man’s music player dies and Erik has Raven tune in a classical station. He runs out of sugary snacks and liquids next and Raven is dispatched downstairs and around the corner for orange juice and fig bars. Erik’s used to these things happening enough that he doesn’t need to ask Raven to light incense.

It’s nearly eleven by the time Erik’s ready to wrap the new tattoo in plastic. Despite the client’s movements, it’s an excellent example of Erik’s graphic work: a monochrome, dot-work stealth fighter jet with clouds of water color-esque washes that seem to bleed into the dots that share both elements. He’s used the ulna to help define the wings’ sharp edges and the radius to give shape to the fuselage.

Raven takes several photos of the piece and then Erik carefully wraps and tapes it up. Raven handles payment and explains aftercare with the same strict voice she used in the morning with the touchup client. Erik orders him a cab while Raven talks and then throws himself into clean up with a passion and Dobbs Dead coming out of the speakers.

 

* * *

 

Charles sleeps most of the eleven hour flight from Vancouver to Heathrow; he takes enough transatlantic and transcontinental flights that he’s grown used to the accommodations. It’s much easier to sleep in business and first class; economy has always been impossible even the few times he’s used muscle relaxers.

Heathrow proves better than he expects on a Monday afternoon, though it is overcast and drizzling. The regular cab service he deals with has cars on the curb for £70 but his frequent use renders him the ride £50. He spends the duration of the ride thinking about Raven, Erik Lehnsherr, and the tattoo industry in general. Once he’s safely deposited at his flat in Oxford, he messages his two current sex partners about meeting up. After that he throws himself down for a nap in hopes of finding better sleep than what was had on the plane.

Unfortunately, when he checks his phone after an hour of tossing and turning in his quiet flat, both his partners have reported in with other plans. One of the two has suggested an afternoon rendezvous on Thursday. Charles prefers evenings and sleeping afterward and responds as such. Some of his partners call him bossy, but he doesn’t see a problem with communicating his preferences in a sex-only relationship; he wishes more of his partners would do the same.

With sleep elusive and his libido unusually active for his travels, he distracts himself with internet radio and gathering his dry cleaning. As an afterthought, he switches the station to Portland’s classical station, 89.9.

When they were children, he and Raven used to play with the huge old record player in one of the guest bedrooms. They would stack record after record on the adaptor atop the spindle and as each record ended, the needle would move back, the bottom record of the stack would drop down, and the needle would advance once more. They listened to hours of classical music, interspersed with Brian’s worn Beatles and Beach Boys records.

He listens to enough classical music without Raven that he rarely thinks of her when he does. However, the Portland station is fresh in his mind and so is the conversation they had under the canopy and in Erik’s truck. What should really be fresh in his mind is the conference, but he’s hung up on Raven, his chronic loneliness, and the idea of spending a few weeks somewhere that isn’t his dark, clutter-infested flat and all the quiet it collects within its walls.

Alone with the quiet, he wonders if Raven is as happy with her job despite as she says. He wishes it hadn’t been her asshole employer that watered the seed of doubt. He might be physically attracted to said asshole, but that isn’t important: Raven is. What if Raven is as satisfied with her life as Erik said on Charles first day in Portland?

Additionally, Raven seems happy with Hank no matter how much Charles tries to pressure her otherwise. Hank is brilliant and can hold his own in intellectual subjects. His experience in the sciences means there’s less background to explain when Charles talks with the young man. Young and brilliant as he is, Hank will likely continue to grow ideas that will surprise and fascinate for decades to come. As long as he invests that same passion into the relationship, maybe Raven won’t grow bored. And if she’s right about their sleeping schedules, maybe it could work out the way none of his relationships ever do.

It’s as he’s headed out into the rain with his garment bags that he remembers, again, Erik’s hand on his vest. This time he thinks, perhaps sex is the answer; enough sex will likely put Erik out of his mind. Then again, perhaps he should get back into boxing and get his clock cleaned rather than his chicken choked. His thoughts are, gladly, interrupted when his phone buzzes with a message. He checks it at the cleaners and sees a 503 number he doesn’t recognize. Curious, he taps it open.

_This is Erik Lehnsherr. I need input to design for you. I prefer to get it directly from the client themselves. If nothing else, forward any images you see in magazines, movies, or books that intrigue you._

“You prefer to get it from your clients, do you, Mr. Lehnsherr?” Charles deletes the text on instinct. “If only you weren’t so bloody tempting.”

 

* * *

 

There’s a message on Erik’s phone Monday morning when he gets in from his run; Raven’s begged off meeting. He wouldn’t mind her absence after the dramatic weekend, but he wants to start on Charles’ design. She forwards him Charles’ number when he asks and he sends a couple inquiries; neither of which yield replies.

Annoyed and frustrated, he goes with the age old route of running image searches on Charles’ full name. He receives a surprising number of pictures of Raven’s brother which do nothing at all to dissuade Erik’s physical attraction. If anything, he’s startled by just how expressive Charles is, how charming he looks when he’s presumably in his element. He frowns when the search turns up even more images of a Roman Catholic saint.

Charles doesn’t seem religious, he hopes he isn’t, but it’s all Erik has to go on. Drawing on his observations of Charles’ behavior and some of Raven’s more pointed criticisms, Erik takes up one of his drafting pens and gets to work. If Charles didn’t like the first facetious design he made, this one will likely make him angry.

He spends most of Monday working between different sketches; one hagiography of Charles Francis Xavier and several sketches of naval warships from his Sunday consultation. Kitty visits Monday afternoon to do homework and to sprawl on the gallery couch to play games on her phone. She tries to get him to draw one of the warships on her as a practice run, but he only answers with crumpled paper balls. She retaliates in kind.

Tuesday morning picks up where Monday left off. A smile lifts the corners of his lips as Erik cleans Quicksilver in the morning; he discovers paper balls between the couch’s cushions and even one in the ceramic vase they use as a umbrella holder.

He’s also now armed with a dozen or so library books on American and Russian naval vessels, M.C. Escher, and Catholic iconography. Erik is lost in the zone of his work, shirtless to let his tattoo breathe and slashing his pen on paper to form variation on variation of warship.

Raven doesn’t come in until that afternoon and at first he doesn’t recognize her. She walks in singing something that makes no sense, but sounds suspiciously like horribly mangled French. When she comes into his view from where he’s seated at the desk, she has his attention at first glance.

Her hair is a glorious, unnatural red. It swings around her face in a thick fall of burning color. The tips dance over her shoulders like holy flames that burn without consuming. The contrast of the red does far more for the blue coils on her shoulders than ever did the blond.

Raven catches him staring and stops to spin around on the ball of her foot. Her hair swings about her face as she stops and tilts her head to one side. She lifts a shoulder and, thanks to her loose-necked top, brings more skin and the satin band of her bra strap into view. “Hank says he needs time to get used to it and Charles is going to hate it. What do _you_ think?”

“I think I need to get laid,” Erik says dryly. “And that it’s a good thing I’m sitting at a desk.”

She laughs and shakes her head merrily. “C’mon Erik, you’ve got nothing to be ashamed of; I’ve seen it before and after you’ve tented your pants.”

“Don’t remind me.” He shakes his head at her sense of humor. “I think your hair looks good. The red brings out the chimera’s snakes. You could probably go more orange to flatter them even more.”

“The red will fade with a couple washes.” Still smiling, she ducks the noren and comes to lean against the doorway. “This is why I work here for such shit wages; unasked for flattery.”

Erik snorts and flicks her thigh with a snap of his fingers. She laughs and rubs at her jeans where his fingernail hit. “You get what you deserve; I don’t pay you to talk.”

“You do so,” she retorts. “You pay me to talk, because you can’t be bothered to do it. You’re an antisocial dick.”

He shrugs. “What was that about unasked for flattery?”

“Only you would consider that flattery.” She leans down for a moment to stare at the dragon she’s branded him with.

“So you want to talk about your brother not liking Hank now?” he asks, because he can’t deny the truth and talking about him makes him uncomfortable.

The question has the desired effect; Raven subsides. Her face doesn’t fall nor does she fill her lungs for a heavy sigh. Instead she slips down the wall to sit on the edge of his desk and picks up one of his drafting pens to fiddle with. “Not really. I already talked to Hank and I kind of want a rest from the topic for a bit.”

Though an infrequent repository for Raven’s sibling angst, Erik finds himself surprised and strangely disappointed at the response. “How did Hank take it?”

“Pretty well,” Raven replies, studying the pen’s barrel. “Considering he’s never had to live with my brother’s disapproval before. He’s kind of sensitive to what people think of him, so he was really upset. But…” She leans sideways over the desk, her face horizontal to Erik’s wary vertical. Gravity pulls her newly red hair down in a wave, but now it isn’t long enough to brush the desk top. “Last night he said he didn’t care what Charles thinks, because he’s in a relationship with me, not him.”

It’s grudging, but it has to be said. “I approve of your overly sensitive boyfriend; he’s shown he’s strong when it matters.”

Raven stills, her sideways face’s mercurial smile, the one that says she’s putting on a brave face, melts away. For a moment he thinks she’s going to cry again. He drops his pen and pushes away his sketchbook away to take her hands, but then she surges forward from the desk. It’s only because he was reaching for her at all that he catches her shoulders, but using the wall for leverage, she over-powers his strength with her momentum. “ _Thank you!_ ”

The desk chair skids back, the two back legs catch, and then they’re tipping back, riding the chair to the floor. Erik has time to brace himself before they hit the floor in a tumble of limbs. After years of being shoved against walls or thrown to floors, Erik is proficient at keeping his head from bouncing hard off the hardwood floor. The impact is hard enough that he wonders if Hammerpress downstairs will hear it.

He’s a little worried he’ll react instinctually and fight back, but while the impact against the floor is one thing and Raven’s weight another, his tension has been bleeding out from his pen and into his sketches. A couple books on the bookshelf fall over with their impact against the floor, but both he and Raven are fine after the reverberations of the hit fade.

Sprawled on his chest, her hands an unexpected cushion at the back of his head, Raven lays along Erik’s torso with a huge grin. “I know I shouldn’t need to hear it, but I still do! I hate it, but I want to hear somebody approves of Hank. He’s so smart and sweet! He doesn’t care that I’ve fucked more girls than he has. He doesn’t care that I have tattoos; he even kisses them, Erik! He kisses my chimera! And he trusts me not to be inappropriate with you and he doesn’t want me to go back to art school _unless I want to!_ ”

It’s a little like being tackled by an aggressively friendly Labrador, Erik decides. For a moment he allows himself to be swept along with her deluge of enthusiasm. It’s easy to do when the emotions aren’t his. It feels good to pull positivity out of her, to say the thing that makes her happy, but when he thinks about it, about why she’s happy about something that she should be able to take for granted, his answering smile drops off the map.

He reaches up and drags his hand through her red hair, looks her in her light brown eyes. “If your elbow weren’t digging into your journeyman tattoo, this would be every bit as inappropriate as Hank trusts you not to be.”

Raven rears back, straddling Erik’s stomach. “Oh, shit, I am so sorry! And, whoah, you _did_ say you need to get laid. Do you want me to hook you up with the lady that does my hair? Or her business partner? He’s pretty hot, but I don’t know if he’s into bisexual guys. He did once say he’d do Charles, though.”

Charles is bisexual, too. Erik grits his teeth, because he never even thought about that, just assumed that it wouldn’t be a problem if he really wanted to get his hands on him. He hooks his feet around the chair legs to get some leverage to push Raven off. “Yeah, you can introduce me to Hank now.”

Raven doesn’t resist his push; she falls aside but she’s still smiling. “Erik, you don’t get to screw Hank; he’s straight. But if you guys did, I would film it.”

It’s not what he meant and they both know it. Raven finds her equivocation much funnier than Erik does. In retaliation he grabs her ankle as she gets to her feet and tumbles her back to the floor. “Fortunately for both of you, I don’t want to fuck your chivalrous boyfriend.”

Scrabbling at the floor with an indignant squawk, Raven tries to drop Erik back down with her by attacking his knees. Legs as long as they are, it’s a simple thing to sidestep her lunge. She gets him around one knee, but he’s already moved the preponderance of his weight to the other. When she doesn’t let go, he drags her like one would a particularly large puppy that won’t let go of a pant leg. Raven giggles delightedly as he shuffles her across the clean floor.

He doesn’t drag her far; he sets the chair back up so he can sit at the desk again. When she twigs to his intention she sighs and releases him. “So you don’t want me to set you up for a hook up?”

He holds up his left hand and wiggles his fingers meaningfully. “I’m self-sufficient, thanks.”

“What a waste of cock,” Raven says to the ceiling. “To borrow a line from my brother: Are you even aware that you won the genetic lottery of cock? Share the wealth.”

Erik grips his pen harder than absolutely necessary when he picks it up and nearly tears the pages of his current sketchbook as he flips back from bristling warships to Christian iconography. “Your brother talks like that? He doesn’t seem the type.”

“Charles is everyone’s type,” Raven says. “If there’s a line between sex positivity and true sluttiness, he mistook it for a finish line and blasted through.”

Erik spins his pen around his thumb several times in quick succession; he looks down at his current design in a whole new light. A light that suddenly brings him a smile. He looks over his shoulder at Raven who is finally drawing herself up off the floor. “This just got better. It’ll be Thursday or Friday before it’s finished, but you can take a look now.”

Curiosity animating her like nothing else, Raven gets to her feet and comes over to the desk. She places her hands on the chair’s back and looms over Erik’s shoulder. Erik leans to one side to watch her take in the scene he’s drawn. He enjoys the transformation of her face as she cycles through confusion, shock, and then hilarity.

One hand comes off the chair to cover her mouth as she starts to laugh again. “Oh my God, Erik, what are you doing? He’s not religious at all and that would take up his whole back and over forty hours! He’ll hate it!”

“It’s just for shock value. I sent him a couple messages about what he wants and he’s never replied,” Erik chuckles. “And you didn’t give me any direction, so I started researching his very Roman Catholic name. Since his patron saint wasn’t fitting, I went with a different one.”

“Of all the saints you could have gone with…! Oh, wait,” Raven chokes, tears of withheld hilarity squeeze from the corners of her eyes. She points at the page with a finger that shakes with her full body laughter. “Charles is uncircumcised.”

 

* * *

 

In the early evening on Friday, Charles picks up his dry cleaning after a particularly long planning session. There’s an envelope taped to the plastic covering the suit he wore the Saturday previous. Usually he’s better about emptying his pockets, but it was a long and often stressful time between finally seeing Raven again, meeting Hank, and dealing with her confrontational mentor. He supposes he left some cash or maybe business cards in a pocket, but when he gets home and hangs the suits back up in his closet he find the envelope curiously thin.

Intrigued, he slips a finger under the flap and tears the tape in two. Charles parts the edges of the envelope and draws out a folded and wrinkled piece of white paper. It releases a strong odor of cigarettes into the air. Baffled, he unfolds it, expecting to see a name and phone number.

What he gets is Erik’s elegant Spencerian script announcing the loss of his bet with his sister. Sputtering obscenities, he tosses the paper blindly aside and storms out of the room, grabs his umbrella from its stand, and heads out for a pint. The rain is heavier in Oxford than in Portland, but he hasn’t far to go through the heavy press of rain to get to the pub he uses for pick ups. All the same, he runs the whole way to burn through his annoyance.

Two hours later, Charles is nursing his third pint and the lovely woman next to him seems to be falling for his rubbish genetic pick up lines. She’s not stupid by any stretch of the imagination; she’s simply charmed by his act and likely after the same thing he is. They’ve been chatting and messaging friends, telling each other the funnier messages and situations their friends are sending.

That’s when Charles gets another mail from Erik; his face flushes with anger as well as alcohol. The woman, Jackie, sees the strangled look on Charles’ face as he tries to decide whether to open the attachment or not.

“Oh, no,” she says, “looks like you actually live with your mother and she’s just told you not to bring home company.”

The comment brings Charles past aggravation, into amusement. Mission accomplished; she’s decided to go home with him. He flashes a cheeky grin. “Actually, no, it’s from my sister’s demented art teacher.”

“I hope he hasn’t sent you a nude of your sister,” Jackie winks and laughs when Charles takes the joke well.

“Definitely not,” Charles snorts. “I’d kill him. My sister’s dating a nice post-doc boy. Not that I’d blame her if she had, I suppose; the man’s built like an Olympic athlete and has cheek bones that could shave a straight razor.”

Jackie’s dark eyes twinkle. “Metrosexual is a plus, Charles. Did he send you a nude of himself, then?”

“I highly doubt it, but if so you are more than welcome to it,” Charles chuckles. He takes a sip of his drink and opens the mail. He finds no message, just an attached image. It’s a nude alright, but it isn’t of Erik nor Raven. No, Erik has sent him a highly detailed nude of _Charles_.

Charles’ beer isn’t expelled out of his mouth to start with, but it does go down the wrong way. He chokes, drops his phone on the bar, and grabs a fistful of napkins as he coughs. He’s grateful for the napkins when the burn of alcohol registers in his nasal passages and goes on to dribble from his nose.

His face burns with embarrassment and no small amount of irritation. Raven and her asshole boss.

“Your sister after all?” Jackie asks, picking up his phone. Her sly grin turns immediately into a fascinated moue. “St. Sebastian? Well then, not your sister. This demented art teacher, does he like you or hate you?”

Though he isn’t quite recovered and his nose burns fiercely with the remnants of alcohol, Charles snatches his phone back from her and looks at the screen again. The monochrome image remains the same: Erik’s harsh pen strokes render everything he draws in black and white. There’s no grayscale to speak of.

The figure is drawn in repose, crumpled from a standing position, and riddled with arrows. It’s clear the figure is dying, the eyes ( _his_ eyes) are rolling back, blood is spilling everywhere. Around his ankle is a heavy manacle with a chain that is attached to a half-opened bird cage. Waiting to escape the cage is a raven.

On second glance, Charles is not embarrassed, but so infuriated he totally forgets that Erik has drawn him naked. Because the flow of ink blood blends in with the cage’s shadow in such a way that it looks like it’s the figure’s blood that has opened the cage to free the raven.

“Oh, I think he hates me,” Charles growls and hits reply automatically. He’s just about to type a hateful message that he imagines Erik will likely laugh at back in America, when Jackie places a hand on his wrist.

Still burning with irritation, he flicks his gaze up to the woman’s face. “Charles, the best revenge is living well, don’t you think? Why don’t you come back to my place and I can see just how closely art resembles life?”

The proposition doesn’t dilute his anger, but the idea has its appeal. Charles looks back down at the reply screen on his phone and then at Jackie’s hand on his wrist. Why not? Getting his ashes hauled seems like as good a way as any of getting token vengeance. It would also give him time to calm down and send a much more scathing reply.

Pocketing his phone, he nods to Jackie, the beginnings of his humor starting to return, but only just. “I like your way of thinking, but why don’t you come to my place if it’s closer?”

He settles both of their tabs and they head out together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Rumcity (aka luciddrugs) who endured my researching, my thoughts on symbolism, answered art history questions, and inundated me with pics of St. Francis Xavier and, my favorite, St. Sebastian. 
> 
> You are an excellent source, Rum.


	5. White knight(s)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay in uploading this chapter. RL and a Halloween fic got in the way. (Super-late Halloween fic collab with Synekdokee forthcoming.)
> 
> On the bright side, I commissioned the amazing [aqueoushumor](http://aqueoushumor.tumblr.com) for this [gorgeous pic of Erik](http://aqueoushumor.tumblr.com/post/70828482769/for-euphorbics-the-boy-with-the-heart-on-his).

_White knight(s)_

 

 

> _Good to hear from you. I need more information to design something specifically for you. Please comply._

 

The woman always shifts around on the gallery’s couch when she comes in. Her eyes dart about the art on the clean, white walls, follow the lines of the couch’s sweeping wooden scrollwork, and when she talks to Erik she mainly looks at his collar. Around Raven she smiles, laughs, and talks about local music. Right now she isn’t shifting around or looking away; her eyes are focused on the draft in Erik’s sketchbook and her lips are parting. Slowly, her pupils dilate with interest and Erik knows he’s won.

“Like a corset?”

“More or less,” Erik replies. “I can tweak the design and placement to subtly embrace that notion or I can keep the design as it is.”

She continues to stare at the picture, her eyes follow the precise lines rendered in ink; not a pencil line in sight and very little in the way of correction tape. “Did you use a ruler for this?”

“At times,” Erik nods, “but I think you know I don’t use a straight edge when I tattoo. I won’t need it.”

She looks up from the page and at his face, pupils still wide, expression open with wonder that Erik won’t pretend to understand. “This really isn’t what I imagined at all, but it's even better than that.”

He never knows what to do with the praise. When customers laud Raven, she laughs and thanks them. Erik shrugs. “It’s my job. So, do you want to go toward the corset notion or move a little away from what I have?”

Her eyes drop down to the page again, travel the ruthlessly straight lines along the ship’s deck, towers, and arsenal. “Can you embrace it more without making it too obvious?”

“Yes.” Erik touches two fingers to the ship’s main tower. “I would place the tower between your breasts. The turrets would come up on either side; everything would fall into place from there.”

A slow nod and then she ducks her head until he can’t see her eyes. “But wouldn’t I have to do this topless, then?”

Her lack of comfort comes back to him like a slap. He looks over his shoulder at Raven, who is pretending to read another trade magazine in the railroad tie wall’s pass through. She glances up with a sad sigh and closes the book. Raven quirks an eyebrow in an echo of Charles’ mannerism that clearly asks if he wants her to intervene. Erik is quick to nod; he has no idea how to handle clients that want tattoos and modesty both. Even if he doesn’t put the tower where he wants, it will be hard to avoid touching her breasts.

“We’re professionals Xi’an,” Raven says. She has a smile on her face that brightens her voice, even if the young woman isn’t looking. “And we see a lot of body parts, you know? But that doesn’t mean we have to see yours.”

The woman finally looks up from the sketch; her eyes go to Raven, not to Erik who she sought out months ago for a consultation. Raven’s jeans scrape lightly as she slides down from the railroad tie wall. She walks lightly over to sit on the couch with Erik’s client. He pushes his work stool away slightly from the table where his sketchbook lies open. He’s concerned that he’s intimidating the woman somehow without knowing it and thinks space is a good way to put her at ease.

“You wouldn’t be the first person worried about nudity,” Raven continues. “I was topless when Erik did my chimera, but I’ve taped up a lot of girls that didn’t want him or me to see their nips. Not a big deal! And really, if there’s anything we respect, it’s your body. A tattoo is about expression and nudity is also about expression, right? So if we didn’t respect your ideas about self expression, we probably wouldn’t be in business.”

Though Erik thinks Raven’s treading a fine line between equivocation and honesty, he applauds her silently for saving him from a sensitive situation he doesn’t have the social skills to handle gracefully. All he can think is how incomprehensible it is for anyone to have taboos about showing their bodies to the person that is going to have their hands all over their skin, let alone needles pushing ink beneath it.

Then again, this woman has been apprehensive about him since he agreed to develop her request for a ship. He doesn’t understand why she’s been pursuing his expertise, not Raven’s, the whole time. Sometimes people don’t make sense and never will; he tries to accept that. Just like he tries to accept his parents never approved of his decision to have tattoos despite Jewish law prohibiting it. As if that was the greatest of his sins. It isn’t.

“Erik,” Raven says, and in saying his name she brings him back to himself. He blinks the dryness of staring off into space from his eyes and focuses on her. “Mind handing me the tablet? I want to show Xi’an some of the work you’ve done where I taped ladies’ breasts with paper towels.”

The tablet is just under his sketchbook, within Raven’s reach, but she’s certainly only asking him to pass it over because she caught him zoning out again. He nods briefly and tips his book up to fetch the tablet for her. He stretches his arm out to her and the second her fingers close over the hard plastic angles, he lets go and pushes back once more.

This time Erik takes to his feet and walks out of the gallery space to the entry hall and makes the turn that brings him to the bathroom and refrigerator. He retrieves a bottle of water, pauses, and then leans down for a second bottle, before going back out.

The woman is watching the tablet closely as Raven flips through Erik’s work, showing chest pieces that are taped and, consequently, quite a few that aren’t. Raven chatters happily to the woman as she slides her finger back and forth over the tablet. Erik says nothing. He sets each bottle of water on coasters on the table: one in front of Raven, the other in front of his client.

He retreats to the factory window and looks out to the west. Beyond the glass half the sky is sunny; the other half is dark with clouds coming in from the ocean. It’s already raining on the edge of the city. While Raven encourages his client, Erik takes out his phone and opens his messages. He flips back a week and a half to find the one that still amuses him and though it is old, it improves his mood slightly. 

 

> Charles F. Xavier: _Mr Lehnsherr, you are childishly mistaken to think I would want myself, religious symbolism, or threatening allegories pertaining to my relationship with my sister set anywhere on my body. But you knew that before you sent the image, didn’t you?_

 

Since then Erik has learned a few things about Charles from Raven with Charles’ permission. But while she’s given him surface information about things they did in school and his many academic and professional achievements, she hasn’t been nearly as forthcoming as she had before he sent the facetious design he’d dubbed _St. Charles_. He can only assume that the siblings had an exceptionally long discussion about the image. The idea, though, had been that Charles would talk to Erik about concepts, not have Raven intervene with bits about Charles’ accomplishments.

The message and the way he’s taken pains to appear to comply with the design process while not actually complying amuse Erik in a way that is strictly contrary. He knows he has some kind of effect on Charles. Seeing evidence of Charles’ pique only amuses Erik more with each day he doesn’t message him with ideas.

Erik hasn’t been idle. He’s been sending Charles additional images; all drawn for no other purpose than to make the genetics lecturer that much more annoyed. He’s saved the last one for Charles’ weekend for maximum irritation. The truth, though, is that Erik is restless all the same and that an exchange over such a long distance feels perfectly safe. Erik can’t throw a punch over a continent and an ocean. He can’t physically hurt Charles if Charles gives as good as he gets. He can’t wrap his hands around his throat and squeeze until…

The bite of fingernails, his fingernails, digging red crescents into the meat of his palms brings him out. His vision clears and he shakes his head violently like the dog he’s been told he is. He doesn’t want to overanalyze it, but since meeting Raven’s brother, his lapses have grown more frequent.

Why does Raven’s brother bring out the worst in him? He breathes carefully, tells himself silently that he just needs to switch over completely to decaf Americanos and step up his runs at Multnomah Falls, maybe attend more crossfit classes. Draw more. Maybe weld some of the special needles he wants to use for the battleship tattoo’s shading. Keep busy.

A glance over his shoulder reveals that neither of the women is looking at him. Their water bottles are both half empty, but Xi’an is slinging the strap of her bicycle messenger bag over her shoulder.

Keeping his hands loosely folded together like he’s rubbing the inside of one palm with his thumb, Erik crosses back to the bathroom and washes his hands. Only two of the nails on his left hand broke skin and there’s no blood to speak of so it is the work of seconds to clean them and walk back out. As long as there’s no need to shake hands, Erik doesn’t see any problems.

He meets Raven and Xi’an in the gallery space. Both women are staring outside in dismay; the clouds have come in with a downpour. Erik glances back down the hall but he only sees his raincoat, Raven’s umbrella in the vase, and the rubber boots he loaned Charles for Raven’s rainy picnic.

“Did you ride your bicycle?” Erik asks.

“Yeah,” Xi’an sighs. “I thought I’d be gone before now. I ran over your appointment time.”

“I always pad out the consultations,” Raven says soothingly, “so don’t worry about that. We’ve got forty-five minutes before I have a client.”

“I could bring in your bike and walk you to the bus stop,” Erik offers. “You can take the bus home to get a rain suit and then come back.”

She looks up at Erik’s face before letting her eyes drop back down to his somewhat tattered collar again. “Yeah, okay.”

Brushing off the continued strangeness of her gaze, Erik heads down the hall. He already has socks on, so he only needs to pull the boots on and don his raincoat. The last person to wear the boots was Charles, but there’s no evidence of him of course. Once he has the boots on Erik rolls his loose pant legs up to the knee to avoid getting the hems wet and takes Raven’s umbrella from the vase.

The rain is torrential when they get to the bottom of the stairs. Xi’an whistles under her breath and hands Erik her bicycle’s key ring. “Thanks for taking me to the bus stop. I think I’d drown otherwise.”

“I’m not sure we won’t yet,” Erik replies and pulls up his hood. “You ready?”

“Yeah.” She straightens up with a big sigh and lets it out slowly. “I might make out a will after this run across the street.”

“Let me go out first,” Erik says and pulls open the door. The wind isn’t bad, but the rain coming down is hard as pressured water from a fire hose. He can feel it beating down on his head and shoulders with a force that anybody else might find disconcerting. Erik finds it vaguely comforting, but then he likes rain.

Wasting no time, he opens Raven’s souvenir MoMA umbrella. The outside of the canvas is unassuming black, but the inside is bright with a printed blue sky and white clouds. He holds it in front of the doorway he shares with Hammerpress: Xi’an darts out under the umbrella’s expansive shelter.

There aren’t many cars in the street, so it only takes a dash across the street and down to the corner to escort Xi’an to the bus stop’s shelter. On the way, though, Erik is surprised to discover that his right sock has started to feel wet. Inside the shelter, he folds up the umbrella and unrolls his pant legs to cover the top of his rain boots to shield them from the downpour. Wet feet he can deal with, but wet socks he cannot.

“Thanks,” Xi’an says. She doesn’t smile, but she looks him in the eyes when he straightens up again. “I’ll be back later.”

Erik checks his watch; the bus will be there in less than fifteen minutes. If he hadn’t left his phone in the factory window in Quicksilver he could check satellite weather for how long the rain was expected to fall so hard. He looks at Raven’s umbrella. If it was his he’d offer it to his client, but it’s Raven’s so he doesn’t mention it.

“If you can’t make it back,” Erik says, “just call and I’ll take your bicycle inside for the night. It’s no trouble.”

“Okay,” she says, and now there’s the smallest twitch at the corner of her mouth. He’s not sure what he’s said to warrant the sudden thaw in her defensiveness, but it will make working with her easier. “By the way, I don’t know if you were listening but I told Raven I’d go with the paper towel bikini thing. I like the idea of having the communication tower on my chest.”

“Good,” Erik nods. “I have a good feeling about the design; it’s a new direction for my work.”

She nods back. “Raven told me. I like it. She said it’s the first and that she’s documenting the process.”

The feeling that Erik has suddenly walked into a conversation he knows nothing about sweeps over him like the rain did a minute ago. He doesn’t know how to respond to the surprise except to shrug and leave, taking his irritation with him. “We’ll see you later, then.”

He escapes the uncertainty of the bus shelter for the safety of the torrential rain. It’s as he jogs down the sidewalk he feels the cold encroachment of water further along his right foot and the start of wet in the left as well. Before running across the street he rolls his pant legs down half way over the boots even though his shins don’t feel the slightest bit wet from falling rain. Wet hems are preferable to wet socks, after all.

“What the fuck?” he snarls, already feeling uncomfortable with what Xi’an said about Raven, his temper begins to overcome the soothing qualities of the downpour.

Erik has to wait for a truck to pass before he can splash across the street and up to his building’s door. He seizes the latch and pulls back just enough to slip inside though he’d rather fling it back with force. Right there in the entryway he pulls off his dripping rain coat and looks at the cuffs of his pants; they are damp below midshin. The water definitely isn’t coming in from the top of his boots. It means his new boots somehow have sprung leaks. Both of them. Simultaneously.

His heart thumps harder and his stomach lurches. What if they were fucked up when he loaned them to Charles? Erik knows he’s a dick, but he prefers to be intentional about it. When Raven said Charles thanked him for the use of the boots, was that sarcasm?

Pissed off, yet anxious, and at a total loss, Erik walks up the stairs, waterlogged socks squelching within the boots at every step. He can’t see where the leaks are, though he thinks perhaps they might be along the sides. They have seams, but they show no bubbles from the mix of air and water.

Perplexed and off-kilter, he hangs his coat, drops Raven’s umbrella into the vase and pulls off his right boot. He immediately peels off the dripping sock immediately after and hangs it half over the vase’s lip. He flips the boot over and stares at the sole, looking for the leak. Erik squeezes the sides of the boot to create a convex curve and the rubber boot gives up its secret: more than half a dozen punctures open their tiny mouths to tattle a pattern too uniform to be natural.

For a moment, Erik is suspended between disbelief and rage.

“That effete bastard.” 

* * *

It comes as a surprise that Erik Lehnsherr is something of a big name in tattoo circles. Charles has paused in the midst of marking papers to surf the internet. He does this more than he will ever admit.

Many tattoo websites bandy such words as revolutionary, visionary, and art brut(e). Comments on the articles range from brilliant and ‘breath of fresh air’ to pretentious, antisocial, hipster, and Nazi. Charles assumes most people are more aware of Erik’s German citizenship via his barely discernable accent than his Jewish ancestry or they wouldn’t call him a Nazi. Perhaps there would be Jewish racial slurs instead.

Online reviews of Quicksilver are quick to heap praise on Raven’s customer service and to warn that Erik’s social skills leave much to be desired, but that his work is solid. Charles’ opinion of online reviews improves after reading that and diminish again when he reads a comment that calls Raven a “scratcher” riding into the tattoo community on Erik’s prestigious coattails. The comment injects heat into Charles’ bloodstream like few things can.

In the face of missing facts, Charles finds rumors on tattoo forums. He doesn’t find it surprising; he’s well-versed in human nature. What he finds more than facts or rumors are images of Erik’s work all over Pinterest, tumblr, and We Heart It. On Quicksilver’s Facebook, which Raven obviously maintains, there are hundreds of works in his half of the gallery; Raven’s is still thin by comparison. Browsing it, he notes that Erik’s dragon hasn’t been uploaded yet. He wonders if maybe it isn’t done or if Erik has forbidden its sharing. He decides it mustn’t be finished; it is the focus of a magazine article after all. Anyone with an interest will see it eventually.

There’s also something called an Album of Shame amongst Quicksilver’s albums. Intrigued, Charles clicks into the album, not sure what to expect. The album contains a few dozen images that look like different renditions of Erik’s work. Charles frowns. If Erik prides himself on original work, why would he remix his own work and badly, at that? But then he reads the captions for the images and realizes; Erik’s work has been plagiarized. Copy cat tattoos are etched permanently within human skin in both small and large scale.

Most of the pictures have captions listing the offending artist’s name, country, and city. A few images posted are captioned with requests for more information, such as sources and authenticity. There are more comments on these images than any of Erik’s other work. Erik rarely leaves replies, except to state in both English and German that while imitation is a form of flattery, assault and battery is still illegal.

Even if he had not himself been plagiarized, Charles would still be offended on Erik’s behalf. He wonders if Raven will have this sort of thing to look forward to when she becomes more well-known by the international public. He presses his pen against his lip in consternation; if only she had gone into fine art where fame and lawsuits prevent the worst cases of plagiarism and fraud.

Shaking his head, he pushes his laptop away and starts back in on his marking. Minutes later his phone pings with a new message. He finishes his current paper and swipes a finger over his phone to see if it’s Raven. Unfortunately, it’s a message from Erik.

Charles gnaws his lower lip and flips his pen back and forth between his fingers. He hasn’t heard from Erik since the last time he sent an image just to be annoying. Charles still doesn’t know and has no intention of thinking about what he wants. Let Erik, the internationally known tattoo artist, figure that out on his own. The man’s an asshole and, plagiarized or not, he drew Charles as a naked and dying martyr whose death frees his sister.

Heart thumping conspicuously in his chest with something other than irritation, Charles opens the message in a compulsive touch of his ink-stained fingers.

_The wet socks hangover cure was unnecessary this morning._

Charles stares at the message, uncomprehending. Did Erik message the wrong person? And then he remembers throwing Erik’s boots across his Portland hotel room. Subsequently he remembers making a trip to the hotel kitchen to borrow an ice pick under the pretense that it would be the perfect size for resetting some equipment. In reality he’d exorcised much of his anger at Erik and himself by doing a quick impression of Trotsky’s murderer on the underside of Erik’s rain boots. 

Part of Charles cringes at his descent into petty vandalism. The petty part rips a loud, crowing cheer straight from his chest. He grips his pen tight and pumps his fist once in victory. “Take that you bloody tosser!”

He sets down his pen and types directly into his phone, _I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about._ And hits send with a sharp jab of his index finger. Sighing pleasantly, he sets his phone aside and picks the pen back up. The next few essays will likely see a more generous sweep of ink, but he doesn’t care; he takes his victories where he can.

The phone pings again and he happily ignores it. Let Erik wait, he thinks, he’s not there to provide him discourse; Charles has a job to do and it is far more important than anything Erik has to say. He thinks, _Let the man stew._

An hour later, he’s finished writing comments on the last page; he caps his pen and sets it aside. The phone is waiting for him, so he finally picks it up to see what Erik has sent. The message that’s been waiting is indeed from Erik, just as he expects and there’s an attachment with it. The text reads, _If that’s how the captain of the Chess club wants to play it._

The attached piece is another harshly-inked image, this time a chess motif; likely Raven told Erik about his days as captain of his college prep school chess club. The image features Charles in the role of white knight on a board filled with black pawns shaped like ravens. Charles’ face is a touch more handsome than he expects, but his chin is lifted arrogantly high. The ravens surrounding Charles all have their backs to him and are in different stages of lifting up off the board to fly away from him.

Charles immediately sucks in a short gasp of air; Erik has captured something true. In the image Charles feels and sees the moment right before complete solitude; the moment even his sister turns her back on him. He’s not sure if this is a coincidence or if Raven has confided something to Erik that she shouldn’t have. Perhaps Erik is even more perceptive than he thought.

As swiftly as victory had come, it now twists in his gut. “You fucker,” he croaks.

He tells himself the impact is stronger than words, because Erik is intentionally using his mastery of images to strike at the heart of him. Logically he knows the power of images, but his heart only sees what it fears; Raven leaving him like his father, like Sharon, like all of the lovers he most wanted to keep. After all, it is always the ones he loves that leave him in the end no matter what he says or does.

Charles picks up his phone and rears back his arm in an act of recent muscle memory. He’s looking directly at the line of book shelves across from him when he begins to hurl it.

It is only through exerted effort at the last instant that he manages to stop himself. It is a very near thing; he feels the electric impulse, the impetus, running down his arm, but arrests the motion in the same moment.

He could throw it, he tells himself, he _could_. He could throw it at one of the two wingback chairs right in front of the bookshelf instead. It might hit the seat back and bounce down to the cushion and then off and onto the Persian rug that spans his flat’s office. Chances are that it would do no damage. But Charles has more control than that day in the hotel room in Portland. He is provoked, but he isn’t going to act on that provocation.

Charles lurches to his feet and his chair rolls immediately back into the bookshelf behind him where he keeps the reference books and journals he uses most often for lectures and research. There’s energy burning along his fingers and up through his limbs that he doesn’t know how to disperse. He moves from the desk and stalks aimlessly to the living room then through to the kitchen. In the kitchen he paces across the tiles a few times before stopping to fill a glass of water and down it.

From there he’s off to the bathroom and the medicine cabinet where he has a few tabs of Xanax left over from his former psychiatrist sex partner. He’d broken their arrangement off when the psychiatrist began to ask him more about his personal life and past than Charles liked. It had made Charles not only feel like his patient, but a fixer-upper. Charles’ heart is still racing in a combination of impotent fury and racking anxiety.

What if Raven were to shut him out? Does Erik know something he doesn’t?

Charles looks at himself in the mirror and beyond the handsome face, beyond the blue eyes that grant him high privileges, and beyond the lips that draw people down from the firmament; beyond the trappings of flesh, he looks into his face and sees fear and loneliness. It is quiet in his flat without any music on, but even if the internet radio were on it would not cover the sound of his breathing or the beating of his heart.

For all his money, status, and accolades, for all his titles, publications, and admirers, for all the respect he has found in society, scientific, academic, and philanthropic circles, it means little to him when the only reflection that looks back is a single one. A single pale and frantic one.

Charles opens the medicine cabinet, snatches up the blister pack of Xanax and presses a tablet through the foil. He breaks it in half and washes one piece down with a mouthful of water straight from the sink’s faucet.

It only takes a few minutes for the Xanax to take effect, but before it does he goes back to his office and takes up his phone. Raven’s phone goes straight to voicemail, but he doesn’t hang up; he listens to her voice inviting her callers to leave a message or to text her. Charles ends the call just to call back and listen to her voice before leaving a simple message. “If you would, text me when you have time for me to call.”

* * *

Erik wants to work on the battleship design, but he has to wait for Xi’an to pick up her bike. He gave her a call to let her know that he’ll take time out when she shows up to make a quick tracing of her body. She hadn’t sounded excited about the idea, but Erik doesn’t really care about her feelings as much as he does the tattoo. He supposes he should expect strange behavior from her by now. Fortunately she isn’t the strangest of his customers, not by a long shot.

In the meantime, he’s started in on image searches for a consultation from that morning while Raven works on her second client of the day. He’s one of Erik’s former clients; a collector with bragging rights to some of Erik’s early trash polka work. Today he’s in having one of his kid’s kindergarten drawings tattooed on his bicep. Raven is chatting happily as she works, telling him it isn’t everyday she gets to replicate Crayola textures and colors.

Erik imagines the man’s kids will be embarrassed by the tattoo when they’re teenagers, but has always found the concept charming. He decides he doesn’t really care what the snot-nosed parasite will think of it when they’re old enough to be embarrassed.

In the meantime he checks his phone to see if Charles has responded to the chess piece yet. He hasn’t. Mentally he applauds Charles for taking his time. Looking back at the computer monitor, he reminds himself he has paying work to do and puts Charles out of his head.

An hour and several pages later he hears Raven finishing up behind him. Erik sets his pen and sketchbook aside to help Raven with clean up. He likes clean up to be performed quickly and efficiently, so it isn’t unusual for him to assist her any more than it is for her to assist him. While she cleans and wraps the man’s bicep, Erik starts spraying and wiping down the bench, filling the incense-tinged space with the smell of disinfectant.

He’s still cleaning after the guy’s left and Raven comes back brandishing a fifty dollar bill. “Mr. Summers is an awesome tipper.”

“He doesn’t have any choice about that,” Erik replies as he finishes up. “He’s Alex’s older brother.” What he doesn't say is that Summers is Jean Grey's husband, because that would make things difficult.

Raven gapes. “What. Why didn’t you say anything about that? Why didn’t he, for that matter? Why are you guys such tight-lipped pricks?”

Erik supposes it’s a fair question, but he knows the answer isn’t going to garner him any goodwill. “Because neither of us want to talk about anything personal that might lead to an awkward conversation.” Like how Summer’s wife doesn’t like Erik. Everyone knows Jean, but Raven hasn't made the connection between the two because Jean kept her last name. Erik has no intention of correcting the oversight. 

The face Raven makes looks painful. “Have you fucked him? Has he fucked you?”

Erik’s face contorts in distaste. “He’s not my type. Besides he’s Alex’s brother so even if I wanted to I wouldn’t.”

“Yeah,” Raven’s expression suddenly veers toward a certain kind of haughtiness. “Are you so sure about that?”

There’s something in her voice, a bit of warning, that Erik has rarely heard directed his way. It isn’t unlike some of the combative turns of phrase she’s used with her brother. Erik plucks alcohol wipes from her work area and begins rubbing his hands down thoroughly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I think you know.” Raven folds the fifty in half and shoves it in her back pocket. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to talk to you about this, but I haven’t been sure. So I’m just going to go for it.”

“Do you want to talk about this mystery subject before or after you tell me about your documentation of my new direction?” Erik’s always been the type to use offense as defense.

There’s the slightest hesitation that says he’s scored a point, but she maintains her posture, even tosses her head to fling her red hair out about her face. It was a more natural-looking habit when she had the golden lion’s mane, but she’s still settling into her fiery hair.

“Before,” Raven says, “because that’s a clean cut case. Our mystery subject is far more mysterious.”

His body language is carefully mute, but he walks back to the cabinets and leans there with his head near his incense collection. He’s burnt enough of the stuff when he’s meditating that it often clears his head just being near the unburnt fumes. “Alright. Let’s hear it.”

“I’ve seen your sketch books, you know,” she starts. “I look at them all the time.”

“I thought we weren’t talking about my new art direction,” Erik says dryly.

“Yes and no,” Raven replies. Her gaze is steady as she crosses her arms under her breasts. “I want to talk about all the sketches you’ve been doing for Charles. You never spend this much time conceptualizing for a client.”

For a single blinding moment Erik feels frustration and anger burn through him. He closes his eyes and wills himself calm so he can speak without showing any evidence of his irritation. The breath of unburnt-incense he takes grounds him, but does not put the fire out completely. “Raven. I have never had so little direction or cooperation to work with.”

“I know,” Raven sighs, but then grows firm. “And at first it was kind of funny to see you fuck with Charles with some of the sketches, but you aren’t actually addressing your needs as an artist designing for a client. You’re just antagonizing him. And that wouldn’t be so bad, I guess, but some of your images use me to do it and that’s begun to really piss me off.”

With his eyes closed, Erik is more aware of the feeling of his lips moving over his teeth when his mouth slants into a frown. The thing about Raven that he both loves and hates is her ability to skewer people with pinpoint accuracy.

Erik nods and when he opens his eyes it feels slightly like defeat.

“I don’t know why you’re spending so much time and energy antagonizing him instead of just telling him straight out that this isn’t how you work.” Raven’s hands come away from their defensive fold to gesture quickly and openly. “So it makes me wonder if you like him.”

“If I like him,” Erik echoes. On second thought, perhaps he doesn’t like Raven’s ability to skewer people at all. “I spend an unprofessional amount of time antagonizing somebody and you wonder if I like them?”

“Erik, when you were a kid, did you pull girls’ hair on the playground, just to get them to chase you?”

“No,” Erik admits. He leans back, feeling the edge of the bookshelf cut a reassuring line of discomfort across his shoulders. “I flicked glue.”

“You…” Raven loses a little of her strict composure. “You what?”

“I pulled the eraser out of my pencil,” Eriks states calmly. “At first I flicked spitwads, but then I started to pour glue into the cavity and flick that in other kids’ hair. One kid had to get his head shaved because the school nurse thought he had lice.”

Raven drops her hands to her sides in shocked exasperation. “You were a little fucker, weren’t you! You haven’t changed at all. Oh my God, Erik, are you flicking metaphorical glue at my brother? Seriously, don’t fuck with his hair.”

The accusation is just comical enough that Erik feels less angry than he does confused. He brings his long, disinfected hands up and rubs at his face. “I don’t know. Maybe I am. I’m not good at this kind of thing, Raven. You _know_ that. You know I don’t do relationships.”

“Yeah, I remember,” Raven sighs and pauses. “Hey. Hey, move your hands and look at me or this isn’t as funny.”

He drops his hands down to his neck in order to see Raven hold one hand up and waggle her fingers. Erik squints one eye in a look of disdain. “It still isn’t funny.”

“This is you,” Raven huffs, “and relationships.”

He can’t help it; he snorts once in amusement that she’s throwing his gesture from the other week back at him. “In my defense, I have been asking Charles for more direction, but he isn’t giving it to me. He tried to use you to do that for him, remember?”

“And you let him!” Raven slaps her hands back down on her thighs. “You never let that shit fly! You’ve been kind of off ever since he showed up.”

What Erik hears is that he has been _regressing_ since he met Charles. Yet, he doesn’t think it is all Charles, because Charles had nothing to do with the strange episode when the Sentimental Ink people were recording him being tattooed. Perhaps something about Charles in combination with Raven’s journeyman tattoo has triggered the problem. He’s not sure. He doesn’t want to think about it, doesn’t want to face that maybe he’s affected by the dragons and their violence written just beneath his skin. The closer he examines them, the more he sees things about himself he doesn’t want anyone else to know.

“Fine,” Erik says, “I’ll focus on a design, but I don’t think I can do anything personal for him. I’m making progress with Xi’an’s piece because she gave me a theme to work with.”

“You can do it for Xi’an because she knows what she does and doesn’t want,” Raven insists. “You told me yourself that you need to push Charles, so push. Heck, you’re doing the London show, maybe you could drop by his place.”

“I would never do that for a client, Raven.” Erik shoots back, agitated. “That violates all my professional boundaries.”

“And stepping in to cover that bet wasn’t violating your professional boundaries?” Raven snorts. “What makes you any different from Charles, white-knighting around like that? I don’t need a prince to rescue me from Charles’ lofty tower of good intentions.”

Erik shakes his head with a light snort of his own. Stepping in on her behalf had not been a professional decision, but one rooted in friendship. If a boundary was crossed, he thinks it was one of his own. His hands drop from his neck as he folds his arms over his chest. The movement pulls his shoulders from the cabinet and increases the pressure across his trapezius muscles; he finds the discomfort grounding.

There’s nothing worthwhile to say at this point if Raven can compare him to her brother. He sees nothing rational in her argument, though he agrees she needs nobody to rescue her from Charles; she did that all herself.

With no response forthcoming, Raven pauses to scrutinize Erik. He hasn’t replied, but he hasn’t looked away either, so he sees her focus dart from his crossed arms, to his jaw, then back to his face.

“Are you shutting me down?” she asks, lips pursing and eyes squinting in irritation. There’s a half beat of silence and then Raven’s expression relaxes into concern. “Erik, look, let’s put Charles aside. I’m sorry. You know… you’ve been spacing out a lot more than usual. I think you’ve slept in the shop a few times instead of your place. Is there something bothering you? Is there something I can do?”

But Erik has nothing to say. His anger is being consumed by rising concerns that, yes, there _is_ something wrong with him but there has been something wrong for a long time. He wonders if he shouldn’t give Moira a call; she’s always been a bitch but she’s often able to cut through his bullshit and tell him what she sees. Unfortunately, calling Moira to tell her something like this might have unintended consequences.

No words come to mind that he wants to share with Raven, so he falls back on other things to fill the space that needs filling. He draws from the top of the list of business things he knows they should talk about. The timing is bad, but he shrugs it off as collateral damage; he needs to say something like a normal human being if Raven isn’t going to do it for him.

“The other week, I told Darwin that Quicksilver’s going to have a gallery opening on a July or August Last Thursday.” Raven’s expression contorts with irritated confusion at his abrupt change in topic. The timing is definitely wrong, but he goes forward. “You’ll be curating; it’s your show. I thought making journeyman was enough of a milestone for a solo show of your work.”

Under any other circumstance, the news would turn Raven into a giggling ball of pure glee. But coming out the way it has, she only leans back on her heels in visible consternation. She opens her mouth to say something, then closes it and slowly shakes her head instead.

“Yeah. Okay. That’s awesome, Erik.” She finally says, but there’s no joy in her voice, just weariness. “I’ll talk to Darwin tomorrow. Hey, I… I got a message from Charles to give him a call so I’m just going to go do that.”

She turns and heads out, letting the noren hit her in the face and slide over her head as she goes. Her steps are swift on her way out of the gallery and down the hall to the door. Erik turns as well, but he’s already exactly where he wants to be; pulling a wooden box of incense off the shelf.

* * *

Charles is on his back, staring at his ceiling. He considers the staleness of the air in his bedroom; it’s been too long since he last opened one of the windows and let fresh air circulate. He’s dozing, floating on a Xanax-induced fog of calm. He rarely takes the anxiety-fighting drug now, though he once used them to help him sleep after the adrenaline surges associated with breaking up with lovers. He hates making people he likes cry, even if they annoy him.

His productivity always suffers after a break up as he spends hours looping the event in his mind, trying to think of a way he could have said things differently to make things less painful for the other. Another reason it would be better to stick with sex partners, instead of having relationships. Another reason, but not one strong enough to overcome the crushing loneliness he often feels.

When his phone rings with Raven’s ringtone, he frowns. He was supposed to call her after her text; it’s a habit born out of necessity after they’d made that stupid bet. Sighing, he takes the call and ends it before Raven can even say hello. In the next instant he calls her back; even if they no longer have a bet going, he thinks it good to continue being conscientious of her phone bill. When she finally buys a car he’ll drop the habit.

She answers immediately. “Hey, what’s up?”

Raven sounds subdued. Charles slowly sits up on the bed and crosses his legs beneath him as he focuses on Raven and her voice. “Is everything alright? You sound a little tired or sad.”

“Yeah,” she sighs. She hesitates before saying more. “Just having some drama with a friend. Don’t worry about it, though; we’ll work it out. How about you?”

The pause tells him the friend might still be near Raven, which means the friend might even be Erik. Feeling as deeply calm as only the medication he shouldn’t have can make him, Charles hunches over his knees and sighs again. “I’ve been thinking about your summer recess idea. How about three weeks? You don’t have to put me up; I can stay at a hotel.”

The connection is good enough that he can hear Raven gasp in surprise. “Are you fucking with me? Because I would _love_ that!” Hesitation obviously forgotten, the rest of her words tumble out in a rush of hopeful pleading. “You should stay with me at the loft! My bed’s big enough. Wait! Oh, Christ, Charles, what if I think you’re Hank and molest you? Erik has a guest room! Sort of… Guest bed. He always sleeps on his couch, that is. Wait, no, Janos has an expensive couch that folds out into a bed. God, but if you two hook up that damn thing squeaks, so use his bed. I want you to stay with me, please? Please please stay with me?”

Charles’ lips stretch in a smile; the heat of the phone in his hand is a welcome one. In his mind’s eye he can see her gesticulating and pacing around in her excitement. It feels good to have somebody in his life that can get so excited at the prospect of a visit. While their bet was on, he was miserable, knowing that his censure had dampened that excitement. Now it is like spring has come again to their relationship.

“Very well, I’ll stay with you,” Charles chuckles, “but you had best not molest me. Is there a time that would be optimal for me to come visit?”

“Well, either the latter half of July or August,” she answers, now with a leading tone to her voice, “since Last Thursday of one of those months is when my show will be. Which is better for you?”

The problem with anti-anxiety meds, Charles thinks from a clinical point of view, is the marked lack of excitement he would normally feel at Raven’s cleverly worded revelation. She is having a show. His little sister is having a show that she has earned on her own merit, not one that she got in New York with a group of other students that were all banking on her old money name.

“Raven,” he says smoothly, with all the calm alprazolam can provide, “did you just say you have a show? Because if you did, then I think it is you that needs to tell me when is better. I want to be there for your show. In fact, I would be happy to volunteer for setting up, breaking down, or anything else.”

On the other side of the Atlantic and the North American continent, Raven is laughing. “Okay, then! Text me your credit card info and when I get the dates nailed down I’ll book you a flight. Sound good?”

And though it means he’ll be seeing Erik face-to-face again, he breathes a soft laugh in reply. “Yes. Definitely.”


	6. Kicking the dead horse into resuscitation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles thinks kicking a dead horse is a form of CPR.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope there's not another two months between chapters. I hate that sort of lag.
> 
> Good news! [mygoddamnurl](http://mygoddamnurl.tumblr.com/post/73757086488/my-erik-head-cannon-for-euphorbic-s-amazing-fic) did a great job on a pic of Erik with an emphasis on his trash polka tattoos! 
> 
> Btw, concerning which side of Erik's chest his dragon is on; I picture it 'over his heart' but I described it as being on the viewer's right, not Erik's right. (This is a typical screw up of mine.)
> 
> Finally, I wrote a short, [ridiculous postcard fic](http://euphorbic.tumblr.com/post/73811556803/mugichacha-got-my-tattoo-fic-post-card-but-you) for mugichacha as one of my New Year post card fic giveaways.

_Kicking the dead horse into resuscitation_

Sunlight is cooking the top of Erik’s head and the skin beneath his faded, long-sleeved Quicksilver shirt. The shirt is from the first batch, before he officially met Raven. She insists they met in New York at a convention, but she hadn’t made an impression on him back then. Nobody made an impression in those dark days. Dark days are far away now; it’s mid-July in Portland and the sun is a permanent fixture in the firmament. It’s too warm for long-sleeves now that upwards of 85 degrees is the norm. However, he has the AC on and his face in his arms which are crossed on the factory window’s wide sill.

“C’mon, Erik,” Raven is saying. “Admit it, you like the idea.”

“I like the idea,” he mumbles blindly, “but it would be odd for me to not be part of it and I don’t want to.”

“Just for the opening,” Raven whines. Her hands fall onto his shoulders, her torso comes to bear on his back. “C’mon, Angel says she’s going to mail us three advance copies of Sentimental Ink. In just a couple weeks or so, your hot bod is going to be in book stores, on the internet, and in truck stop bathrooms, anyway. What’s three hours? Please, Erik? I’ll be your best friend forever and ever.”

“Photos are different.” Her weight feels good on his back and over every spot that shields him from the sun’s intensity. There are days he considers unhooking his punching bag and laying it across his back and shoulders, just to feel the press of it. “You do what you want and I’ll do the same.”

Her hands come off his shoulders and her weight slides back off his body. “But it’s my journeyperson piece. It would be weird if it wasn’t on display.”

Erik sighs. “Didn’t I just say that?”

“I’m going to wear a backless dress with plastic straps and plunging neckline to show off the chimera. Nobody’ll be looking at you if they can see my ass crack and most of my boobs.”

“Your brother’s going to have an aneurysm.”

Erik has tried not to think much about Charles for the last few weeks. He’s backed off from the tattoo conceptualizing since Raven accused him of white-knighting (false) on her behalf and using her to antagonize Charles (inaccurate; he used her image, not her, and he doesn’t regret it). Getting away from designing for her arrogant brother has freed him from some of his tension; he’s managed to successfully jack off in his shower, meditate normally in Quicksilver’s back room, and sleep more or less in his loft. It isn’t as good as he was two months ago, but better than he’s been in six weeks.

He’s kept busy; Morpho’s front door has been painted, their back room wired up with better fixtures, and he’s helping the women at Triple Cha by restoring some furniture for their shop’s new vintage boudoir look. Later, he’s agreed to do pin striping at a private event the art director at Incubator, the gallery across from Morpho, has organized. She saw him do Triple Cha’s window and Morpho’s door and had marveled at the steadiness of his hands each time. Erik had been impressed in turn when he gave her his hourly rate and she had withdrawn cash enough for the first hour, the rest to come the night of the event.

“He won’t make as much of a scene in public,” Raven replies with a snort. “Besides, two of the girls that do burlesque are going to be in costume and you, Sean, Hank, and Janos will be here.”

“If Janos is in town,” Erik says, lifting his head to the intense blaze of the sun through the glass, “Charles may not look at you at all.”

“Unfortunately, he and his Russian angel of death are back on again,” Raven grouses, “but I don’t know if Az will be here. He’s overseeing security on a ship due in to Vancouver that Thursday, but he’s shown up early before. But if Janos is here nobody’ll be looking at you, either. Janos and I are the answer. Give in.”

“It’s a good idea.” Erik repeats. He rubs his face and pushes away from the sill. His eyes remain closed for another beat just to relish the glowing red of the sun through the thin skin of his eyelids. “It’s your show: do it the way you want.”

“And you?” Raven pushes.

“I already told you.” He draws up, straightening his spine with a brief stretch. When he turns and opens his eyes, Raven’s hands are on her hips, her head tilted to lift her chin up. Her vermilion hair is slicked back in a tight ponytail to keep it out of her eyes.

“Fucking Erik,” she says. “Whatever. Can I take your truck to pick Charles up?”

“We only need it to move Sean’s equipment over here, right?” Erik nods as he thinks it over. “I have the Felt, so if you want to borrow my truck any time while he’s here, that’s fine. Nobody else can drive it, though: just you.”

“Thank you.” Raven lowers her chin and reaches forward to pluck at his shirt. “Turn off the AC and take off that decrepit shirt. Wear a tank top. Get used to it, please?”

Rolling his shoulders in a show meant to convince her of his indifference, he walks over to the ancient window unit he unearthed in Raven’s building’s basement. It’s worked perfectly since he cleaned it, replaced the rubber parts, and recharged the Freon, but it isn’t easy on the electricity bill. Air conditioners are uncommon in Portland; it never gets particularly hot, though it rarely snows, either.

He taps it a few times with the bottom of his fist and then cranks the cold up. “Tattooing in the cold keeps veins below the surface of the skin so there’s less bleeding.”

“Tattooing over goose bumps is bullshit.”

Erik smiles without humor. They both know the old air conditioner is strong, but the cold air it emits rarely makes much of an impact in their workspace before the gallery space is like a freezer.

The conversation is brought to an end by the business line’s quiet buzz. Raven turns away to answer it, but not without a parting shot; “I’m starting to think you don’t like it.”

If it wouldn’t upset Raven terribly he’d agree with her. He’s had time to think about it since she finished the last washes of color. It isn’t that he doesn’t like the tattoo; how could he dislike a piece of art so perfectly executed? A work that has dimensions that even he, both mentor and recipient, still only sees from a distance though the work itself is under his skin? A work made by somebody he respects as an individual as well as an artist?

It isn’t that he doesn’t like the tattoo, but it very much is that he doesn’t like what he thinks it says about him. When he remembers the day his mother found his first homemade tattoo, executed with a needle and India ink, he still gets a little itch in his throat and twitch in his fingers. But in for a penny in for a pound and he has more than a pound invested in his skin.

Perhaps Raven is correct, though; maybe he can get used to it. He reaches to the AC without looking and switches it off. He turns and walks through the alcove that houses the sink and small fridge on one side and the bathroom on the other, to the shop’s multipurpose room. It is at once a work room, storage area, and occasional crash space.

Erik pulls his old shirt off as he goes. From inside the room’s closet he retrieves a black tank top and pulls it down over his torso. He likes the way his long, black tattoo confuses the eye when he wears black shirts. The effect is striking with tank tops, but it also displays his now fully-inked sleeve. The tank’s strap joins his blackwork on one side and divides the dragon heads on the other.

When he walks back out to the gallery space Raven gives him a cheery smile and a punchy thumbs-up from the desk in their work area. Her smile is incongruous with her words; she’s explaining to a caller that, no, they don't do scleral tattooing but she can refer them to a modification artist with the appropriate experience. Erik shakes his head dismissively and stops in front of her, on the other side of the pass through in the wall where the schedule book lives. He turns the book around and flips from the weekly pages to the monthly.

Third Thursday is strange in August. The first Thursday is on August 1st, so the third is only two weeks in, on August 15th. He scans the pages, eyes immediately moving from the 15th to the 3rd. Charles arrives that Saturday. If the flight doesn’t do him in, the three of them will have dinner or drinks together. If not, they’ll meet up after his work at the private show on Sunday.

Erik waits for Raven to get off the phone before gesturing behind, down the hall to their front door. “I need to go get the final details arranged for the private show at Incubator. You want anything from Morpho when I come back?”

“Nah.” Raven shakes her head and grabs her tablet, presumably to work on one of her customers’ designs. “But don’t forget to ask Ororo how many invites you have to that show. I know Kitty’s going, but I wouldn’t mind dropping by with Charles or Hank. They probably can’t watch you do a tattoo, so this would be a nice way for them to see you do some art.”

“If you want them to see me tattoo somebody, they can watch me do your fingers.” The idea isn’t thrilling, but Erik nods. “Two or three of you will be fine for the Incubator show; Kitty won’t be a guest.”

“But Kitty’s been so excited!” Raven’s eyes are wide and dark with offended surprise. She drops her tablet on the desk so her hands can form fists and immediately plant them on her hips. “Is there alcohol or something?”

“Wine,” Erik replies. “But I wouldn’t worry about Kitty. Since you’ll be busy with your brother, I asked her to be my assistant.”

Raven’s hands relax out of fists; she pulls the tablet back to her by her fingertips. As ever, she’s quick to smile when genuinely pleased. “She must be freaking the fuck out.”

Erik gives a one-shouldered shrug. To say Kitty is ecstatic would be something of an understatement; as long as she works at Morpho Erik doesn’t think he’ll ever pay for coffee ever again. However, he doesn’t feel like saying any of that, he doesn’t feel like saying anything.

Raven knows. She doesn’t pressure him for a response, instead she waves at him with the hand holding her stylus. “Oh, Xi’an called about rescheduling. She’s fine postponing until after the Incubator show; it’ll put her on the other side of a pay day.”

Nodding once again, Erik turns on the ball of his bare foot and lopes down the hall to the door. He slips on his sandals and walks down the stairs and out into the brightness of a cloudless sky and an ocean-scented breeze. Instead of going straight to Incubator he walks down the gentle slope, turns left along Morpho’s perimeter, and takes himself to Triple Cha to call in a favor.

* * *

Charles sleeps calmly nearly the entire way to Vancouver; first class is nice, but it’s even better since he bought the ticket for the seat next to him. One never knows when a talkative executive might end up close by and Charles wants to start this long holiday out right. Things are going well; he feels good, confident, and generally carefree. As if in accordance with his good mood, the transfer to Portland goes over without issue and when the second plane finally lands he’s pleasantly surprised by the blue skies he sees outside his window.

Once the plane comes to a full stop he powers up his phone and types a simple message to Raven to let her know he’s arrived and receives a quick pic of her smiling face with the airport shopping area in the background. Her dyed red hair is still jarring, but he’s determined not to tell her he preferred her long, golden hair or her natural-born dark brown. It isn’t his hair, she told him, and she’s right. Still, he thinks the blond suited her better but contents himself that she didn’t go blue or purple.

Immigration doesn’t take him long since he’s travelling on his American passport, but he cuts it even shorter by brandishing smiles and charm at the TSA workers. It helps that he’s traveled enough to know exactly what they want and to comply before they can ask him to do so. Picking up his luggage and getting through customs is even easier.

When Charles is finally allowed to walk out into the international arrivals lobby, he immediately sees Raven standing right outside. Her lips stretch thin in an open-mouthed smile that immediately gives way to delighted laughter. In her hands is a heavily decorated sign that reads, _Professor Sexy Pants_.

He doesn’t even feel himself move forward. Charles releases his rolling luggage and sweeps Raven up like the wind to her namesake. The sign and her hands are crushed between their chests with his sudden and fierce hug. Her red hair swings to the side as he spins her round in a full revolution.

They’re both laughing breathlessly by the time he sets her down; all around them are the amused and smiling faces of onlookers infected with their joy. Charles steps back, though he keeps one hand on hers as he does so, and looks her up and down. By the time he gets up to her eyes, he finds she’s a beat behind doing the same. They laugh again.

Despite the unnaturally vermilion hair, Raven looks wonderful; her cheeks are flushed with glee and her mouth is open in a wide smile, ready to drop back into laughter at the slightest provocation. Though it was colder the last time he visited Portland, she’s wearing a silky, raglan-style blouse with transparent sleeves that mutes her blue snakes without completely concealing them.

“It’s only been six weeks, but there’s something different about the way you look,” Raven says and tugs on his hand. “You lost a little weight or something.”

Charles tightens his grip on her hand and pulls back, nearly toppling her into his chest. “I may have started training again.”

Raven lifts an eyebrow in unconscious mimicry of his own infamous expression. “Yeah? Giving up impressing people with that epic-level charm of yours and going for the machismo?”

Taking hold of his rolling suitcase, he shakes his head. “No, just wasn’t feeling very healthy. Had a few anxiety attacks and thought taking up boxing again might help. And it has; no anxiety since I started.” He also hasn’t had any contact with Erik since he started, but he’s not going to muddy the atmosphere by mentioning that.

Raven slips her arm around his waist and matches strides to lead him to the multilevel parking lot. “Anxiety attacks suck. If you have any while you’re here, maybe I can get Erik to set up his punching bag in our place. Or he can loan you one of his books on meditation.”

So much for avoiding Erik as a topic; his heart rate remains blessedly even. Charles frowns slightly, but reminds himself the amount of time his sister spends with Erik is enough to make any number of topic-connections to him. “Erik doesn’t strike me as the meditating type.”

“I told you the first time you met him that he meditates,” Raven replies and Charles doesn’t see her shrug, but he feels it against his side.

“I suppose it slipped my mind.” It’s hard to reconcile the idea of somebody as confrontational and insulting as Erik with frequent meditation. There’s an edge of violence to him, a reality that seems very present within his dragon tattoo and the hand that had gripped Charles’ blazer that rainy, Portland night. “But he boxes, too?”

“I don’t think so,” Raven says. “I think he just uses it to let out anger; he’s kind of like a very angry pacifist? I don’t know.”

“Maybe he puts the fist in pacifist.” Charles takes solace in the idea that Erik doesn’t know how to box. Maybe that’s why he meditates; to deal with his temper. In his mind’s eye a cloud of ink is summoned and Charles sees the two headed dragon, in particular the dragon head that has unicorn horn in its eye. Unicorns are cliché, their symbolism varied, but Charles muses there’s room for another interpretation: purity and honor versus draconic violence.

Annoyed with himself for thinking so much about it, he dismisses thoughts of dragons, unicorn, and Erik. He turns his attention to engaging Raven in teasing and hi-jinks on the way to the parking lot. At one point a receptive Raven even attempts to ride along on his luggage.

Charles manages to preserve the light mood by keeping any criticism to himself and keeping Erik firmly banished from his mind. Jet lag has him a bit tired, but he’s determined to stay alert so he can watch his mouth. When they get to Raven’s parking lot, though, Charles doesn’t manage to conceal a frown; it seems Raven is still driving Erik’s truck.

Fortunately, she either doesn’t see his expression or she’s decided to ignore it. She drops the truck’s tailgate and together they heave up his suit case. His bulging messenger bag goes with them into the cab. As a distraction, he runs through Erik’s radio dial to hit all the stations Raven mentioned the night they had picnicked in the rain. He lingers on the truly obnoxious stations, to the tune of Raven vowing murder, but finally leaves it on 89.9.

His flight over the Atlantic and Canada chased the sun across the sky, so it is mid-afternoon by the time they switch from southbound Interstate 205 to the west-headed 84. Most of the traffic is headed out of the city, so they get into the downtown area without too many delays. All the same, Charles begins to feel his jet lag more acutely.

A little more than an hour after they left the airport, the black truck comes to a stop in an old, industrial-looking district. Charles pulls his head up from where he was dozing against the door and sees Raven smiling softly at him.

“So, this is Eastside,” she says. “I cleaned up our place, but there’s no telling if that stuck if Sean’s home from Nike. Janos might be here; he said something about cooking.”

Raven’s Eastside building looks like many of the others in the area; old and made of red brick. Some of the former factory buildings retain their patina of age, a few others have been painted over in white. The neighborhood is reminiscent of the one Quicksilver rests within, only with a far less commercial ambiance. It is an area that seems to be well into its own urban renewal, but with one foot firmly placed in its industrial past. It smells both of beer production and smoke; reverberates with music and the heavy tread of sixteen-wheelers.

The factory building Raven lives in has seen fewer renovations than many of the others, which is a nice way of saying it looks run down. They have to go around the side of the building to use a concrete, delivery ramp to roll Charles’ luggage inside. Once inside, the first floor is dark, smells of dust and paint, and retains a chill despite the bright sunlight and warmth outside. To get to the building’s gated lift they maneuver around stacks of wood, a few decrepit motorcycles and parts, and abandoned pieces of furniture.

The lift is plastered with signs that declare it is not to be used without supervision. Charles’ cheer takes a turn for the forced as Raven throws the gate up and motions for him to join her on the big, ancient lift. It looks like something out of a horror movie.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “The artist collective on the fourth floor once hauled about half a ton of sand bags up there on this thing. In comparison, we’re nothing.”

Charles gestures to one of the many notices about the lift being off limits. “But I don’t think you’re supposed to be using this.”

“Oh Charles,” Raven says, “we’re not even supposed to be living here. This building isn’t zoned as residential. The owner rents it out as artist work studios, but she knows we all live in it and she knows we all use the lift. I mean, it’s never locked.”

His forced cheer collapses, but Charles boards the lift with his luggage and without verbal complaints. The inside is lit by a naked bulb, the interior walls are filled with stickers, tags, and murals. Not a few of the stickers are beer labels. Raven is not at all deterred by his mood, or if she is she isn’t showing it, and quickly closes the first floor’s gate and then the lift’s interior gate. She presses one of the large, round buttons and after a shrill bell-ring, the lift lurches up.

“We’re on the third floor,” Raven tells him helpfully. “Sean uses the lift the most for transporting his DJ equipment. Though a lot of Janos’ associates like to use it to take up their camera equipment.”

“What kind of modeling does Janos do?” Charles asks. It must be a better subject than the lift, after all.

“Whatever he can get.” Raven shrugs. “Mostly Nike and mundane catalog apparel, but he’s just signed with a new agency that handles luxury brands, so he’ll probably be moving to New York soon.”

“Has he modeled for you?” It’s an easy association to make since she still produces fine art on the side.

“A little,” she laughs. “He doesn’t always have time to pose, so I have to take pictures of him and I don’t have a very good camera. Anyway, I have carte blanche to sketch him whenever I like, but there are other people I use more.”

Raven stops the lift at the third floor where they are confronted with a pair of double doors. She throws the gate up and opens the door on the right. Charles follows her out into a small space that leads to greater floor space to the left.

The space is far larger than he imagined; it occupies the former factory’s whole third floor. The exposed, wooden ceiling is far above and lined with wiring conduits and plastic pipes; an industrial reinvention of plaid. Though there are walls around the lift and more walls that section off what are likely bedrooms, most of the unevenly-worn, wooden floor is open. There is a living room area in the long, dim space with couches in the space between a far bedroom and the lift’s shaft. A few guitars, a big screen television, and collection of game consoles, as well as an old pinball machine, all live in the area. Across from the living room space is what appears to be a fully stocked bar straight out of a seedy seventies club.

Near the loft’s door is a small collection of Puch mopeds and vintage bicycles left by previous inhabitants. Stepping further out from the lift, Charles sees another space to his right where light streams in from a huge, arched factory window. He wanders toward the window and comes in contact with a long dining table with mismatched chairs. The space is cool, but not so much as the first floor, and the rich scent of vanilla fills the dining area.

Across from the dining table are the kitchen bench, stove, and refrigerator. Charles would spend more time looking over the kitchen’s appliances and assorted kit if not for the man bent over to pull a pan out of the oven. More properly, Charles is distracted by the shape of the man’s ass, the way the white linen of his shorts pulls tight with his bending.

As the man straightens up to set the pan on the top of the stove, Charles turns to Raven with one eyebrow arched in pure appraisal. In return, both her eyebrows jump in innuendo.

“Hey, Janos,” Raven says, voice echoing in the loft’s huge open space, “is that your abuela’s flan?”

The man, Janos, doesn’t reply verbally, but turns his head to smile and nod. Charles’ mouth dries a little at Janos’ perfectly symmetrical face, sharply-sculpted jaw, and aquiline nose. There’s a touch of mischievousness in his dark brown eyes that makes him all the more attractive.

Janos abandons the rectangular pan and the leather gloves he used to draw it out in order to walk over and offer his hand to Charles. Charles gives Janos’ warm hand a firm grip and receives a fair grip in return. It isn’t anything like Erik’s. Mentally he winces at the instant comparison; physically he smiles to cover any possible slip of emotional discomfort.

“Nice to meet you Janos, I’m Charles.” And though Charles knows he shouldn’t allow it, all the charm he thought the building had sapped from him makes a sudden reappearance. “I’m deeply indebted to you for taking care of my sister for me.”

Janos’ smile lifts more at one corner of his mouth, casting his expression in a devilish light. He shakes his head slightly. “I think maybe she takes care of me.”

Raven grins at that and sidles over to give Janos a quick one-armed hug.

“In that case,” Charles says smoothly, enchanted by Janos’ Spaniard lisp, “I should collect a fee for her protective services.”

Janos huffs a laugh at that and Charles wonders if perhaps Janos is as well-versed in this game as he is. As a model, it is likely so. But as much as he is beautiful, he is not a conversationalist; he merely gestures back at the flan he pulled from the oven. “Thirty minutes more and I pay.”

But then, maybe models don’t need to speak much, Charles reasons, they’re clothes hangers. Or perhaps Janos isn’t confident in his English. And then again, Charles has met many French and Spanish people that cultivate an air of mystery that he rarely ever sees in the UK or America. Perhaps that’s what lies at the heart of the handsome Spaniard’s attractiveness: not just a beautiful face and body, but a carefully maintained mystery.

“Charles and I might go out for dinner,” Raven says, tugging on the hem of Janos’ shirt. “If we go, we’ll have to wait on your hospitality cum protection-fee flan. You’d be more than welcome to come along.”

Another softly sinister smile takes Janos’ lips as he shakes his head. He reaches down and carefully pats the front pocket of his shorts. Charles flicks his gaze down and notes the shape of a phone in Janos’ pocket. And that he packs right.

“Agency or Russian asshole?” Raven says with a mock scowl. “Only one answer is correct, Janos, so choose wisely.”

He pulls his shirt hem from her fingers with a little jerk; brows lowered a fraction. “Wine and beluga caviar.”

Raven groans and lets her hand fall to her side. “Fine. But if he gives you anymore hickies, I won’t help you cover them up.”

The blithe threat is met with a sharp look from Janos, but he doesn’t mount a verbal protest. He simply spins around to the kitchen counter to cover the flan. When he turns back again he gives Charles another polite smile. “Thirty minutes. Eat all you like.”

“It smells heavenly,” Charles says. He wonders at the pointed look Janos casts Raven’s way and is poised to dislike him for it. Though if Janos is secretive about his relationships, he can see where he would be affronted. “But I’m sure we’re going out tonight, so it will make a decadent and much appreciated breakfast.”

Janos nods at this and, casting Raven a look that once again proclaims his disapproval, walks away from the kitchen bench and appliances to one of the wide-open factory windows. He easily pulls himself up on the sill and then out onto the fire escape beyond, dispelling several pigeons. Once the pigeons are dispersed he pulls the phone from his pocket and starts running his finger over the surface.

“Damn, I always forget how he is around company,” Raven sighs. Her arms are crossed and one hip is cocked. “If Az comes around please don’t mention the New York thing. Az has been pressuring Janos to move up north to Vancouver for a year, so I’m pretty sure he’ll be pissed when he finds out Janos accepted the New York agency’s proposal.”

“So noted,” Charles nods. “Though it seems a little silly to be upset over something as trivial as a hickey.”

Uncrossing her arms, Raven shrugs and returns to her default upbeat state. She taps a foot against Charles’ suitcase and gestures at the walled off room to the left of the fire escape. “Let’s get that in my room.”

Raven’s room is not unlike the one she had back in Westchester in that clutter is the rule rather than the exception. The wooden floor is clear, but there are stacks of reference books everywhere as well as a truly bewildering array of art supplies, art objects, and found things he’s not sure what to make of. Most notably a stack of old picture frames with the glass still in half of them, a collection of brown glass jars with old, peeling labels, and a few potato chip canisters filled with acorns.

Behind him, Raven closes the door. “You can change clothes in here if you feel dirty from the flight.”

Unlike the rest of the loft, Raven’s ceiling is not exposed woodwork; she has a drop ceiling. Similar to the rest of the loft, though, the walls are covered in murals in a variety of mediums. Most of the work he recognizes as her hand, but there are a few he knows aren’t hers. Particularly, there’s a lettered piece that puts him in mind of somebody else. It’s right beside the door frame and wasn’t visible with the door open all the way. The stretched script is red, distinctive, every letter capitalized; it covers nearly the same space as the door.

“You can put your suitcase against the wall. I don’t have a closet, but you can hang anything you want up on the rolling clothes racks.”

Raven continues to advise him, but Charles isn’t paying attention. He walks up to the wall where two words, four letters each, are painted. Guiding lines in pencil are still visible on the drywall; no effort has been made to erase them, even if they are mostly painted over. The paint is laid on in a smooth and flawless red. The hand that rendered the brushstrokes applied precise ascending and descending pressure to each perfect line.

“Yeah, that’s the problem with text,” he hears Raven say. Her voice is tinged with amusement. “Text dominates your brain. It’s like reason whereas images are more emotional. That’s one reason it’s behind the door.”

“Don’t stop,” Charles reads aloud. It is a bold statement even if it weren’t in huge, red letters. “Why ‘Don’t stop’?”

“It’s Erik’s idea for my tattoo,” Raven replies. She slips her hand around his waist again; tactile and present as always. “I asked him to do my fingers not long after the chimera’s extra snakes, but he refused. At the time he said he wasn’t confident I was committed to tattooing as a career. I kept bothering him about it, so he painted this on the wall last year and said he’d do it if I didn’t get sick of it.”

Erik refused her request? He knew Erik would probably be the type to refuse some people or work; the Quicksilver website and Facebook had identical lists of work and body parts that he wouldn’t do. But to refuse the request of a friend and fellow tattooist adds a vein of personal integrity to the man he hadn’t expected.

“I’m thankful for his discretion,” Charles admits. “With long sleeves, neither of you have visible tattoos. You can pass for normal.”

“Yeah, true, for a given value of normal.” Raven sighs and leans into him. She takes time to continue, obviously choosing her words carefully with the tumultuous topic. “I’ll be honest with you; if I wear tank tops or halters and drive Erik’s truck I get ‘routine stopped’ all the time. The cops get pretty aggressive and ask me if I know who the truck belongs to. Like I stole it or something. So, I usually cover up when I drive. Being tattooed makes life more complicated. Fortunately, my trust fund is big enough to smooth a lot of financial concerns that would crop up.”

“Like signing for a loan,” Charles affirms and all the other things that he always considers come to the fore. His blood pumps faster in anger at the thought of Raven being subjected to police harassment. “Renting or leasing a home will be harder. Getting seated at upscale restaurants won’t be easy, if even possible. You willingly socially handicap yourself as a tattooist and forfeit a normal life when your tattoos are visible.”

“I’m ready to accept the consequences, Charles. I can handle it when total strangers tell me to enjoy my life working in bars or flash me with their gross dick tattoos.” She tightens her hold on him in a reassuring squeeze. “I already told Erik; he’s going to do my fingers after my show.”

He slips his arm through hers, around her waist, and pivots to stand before her. Raven is beautiful, even if her expression is encompassing weariness and suspicion, but his love for her makes up for that. “I think Erik was right, Raven. I don’t think you’re ready for hand tattoos.” He reaches up to deliver the _coup de grâce_ ; lightly tracing his fingers over her upper lip and then the perfectly sculpted dip between her lip and nose. “If you were ready you wouldn’t hide this.”

Raven’s eyes widen in alarm and a certain kind of horror that chills him deeply. All the training in the world can’t prepare his heart for the stricken expression she wears or how her eyes narrow. Charles isn’t a bad boxer, in fact, he can be truly dangerous when he trains regularly, but his jabs and uppercuts will never have the precisely-delivered devastation his brain feeds his tongue. He’s never prepared for how he hurts her, but he takes solace that, once again, the greater good is on his side.

He waits for her to pull away, to even take a slap to the face like Sharon used to give him. That, at least, would be known, would be understandable and acceptable. It would be good because deep down, he knows he deserves it; isolation and violence have been the price of his terrible insight since childhood.

Raven doesn’t release her one-armed hold. As often as they’ve met up since she dropped out of art school, tears tremble in her eyes but she fights not to shed them. Their appearance stabs Charles deep, but he expected this. He knows the sword he uses will wound them both and though he hates the pain he is inflicting, he accepts that which sinks into him. He has always been willing to fall on his sword to protect her.

As she stares, unmoving but for the tremble along her lashes and the flare of her perfect nostrils, Charles knows that if this doesn’t do the trick nothing will. He’s never said it, never mentioned her scars, because they’ve always been a source of torment to her. Their stepfather called her hideous and, when bitter in her drinks, Sharon never hesitated to call her deformed. The scars are hardly discernible anymore, just silvery traces, but she continues to hide them under foundation, powder, and lipstick.

There’s a sharp, familiar crack and then Charles’ head is facing to the side. He feels blood rushing back to the surface of his cheek where Raven’s hand struck it bloodless white, but he. He deserves this, is relieved even, but he doesn’t want to bring his head back straight for her to draw a second target. Instinctively, he holds her waist tighter, to reassure her, though it seems inappropriate to do so. In this he’s like Sharon, too, he thinks; when he isn’t ignoring Raven, he gives affection with one hand and wounds with the other.

But then Raven squeezes his free hand and in a bewildering moment shoves her face into his shoulder. Both her hands migrate around his back, one grips his shirt tightly. She doesn’t shake, but her breath is hot on his bicep.

“Damn you,” she mumbles, one fist beating weakly against his back. “Damn you, Charles Francis Xavier. Damn you for being such a dick, damn you for being such a ruthlessly manipulative asshole.”

“I’m sorry, Raven,” he says. He pulls her in tight, tries to get closer in an attempt to feel her heart beating against his. He thinks, _Please don’t leave me_ , but he says, “I wish I wouldn’t always hurt you. I wouldn’t say if I didn’t love you so much.”

“Damn you for everything,” Raven continues as if he’s said nothing. She pulls her frowning face back from his shoulder. Her brows are pushed together, but the leading edges of her eyebrows point up. It’s a strangled expression, complicated; one full of heartbreak and a bewildering touch of Raven’s usual humor. “Damn you, Charles, for being such a patronizing jerk, but damn you even more for being right. I know what I have to do now.”

* * *

Erik is strangely disappointed when he gets a text from Raven saying that she and Charles aren’t up to have drinks. He had thought he could use the opportunity to figure out the dynamic between the three of them, but now he’ll have to wait until the next day after the Incubator show. He brushes the odd feeling aside and turns the propane and then oxygen back on to weld an arrangement of needles together. He imagines his upset burning away, transforming the way fire transforms metal.

The next day Kitty is a bundle of nerves and shows up at Incubator ten minutes late, pink-cheeked, and with her hair in two thick braids. Erik is tempted to tug on them, but she keeps picking them up and dropping them on her chest, trying to situate them in a way she likes. He’s never seen her so self-conscious.

“What’s with the braids?” Erik asks as he sets up his work area.

There are seven people in the show who are all doing live demonstrations. The show’s theme is lettering. Ororo has contracted an alibata calligrapher, a font-designer, one of the guys from beneath Quicksilver with a letter press, a woman with a duffel bag full of rattle cans, someone doing illuminated script, and a stenciler.

Erik adjusts the antique mirror Ororo provided until he’s confident it’s completely stable. It’s the mirror, Erik realizes, that’s putting Kitty off; she’s watching herself in the surface instead of helping him set up the way he showed her.

“Kitty,” Erik says, and it comes out just as harsh as he was going for. She startles and turns to look at him, only to find he’s staring at her reflection in the glass. “What’s the problem?”

Her gaze slides away from his in the glass and drops to her Chucks. He’s never seen her look so uncertain. “I’m sorry I was late, Erik. I just look stupid; I tried to do my hair, but I screwed it up. I went for make up, but I had to wash it off twice. I wanted to look cool for this, but I’m not cool like you or Raven.”

Sometimes Erik forgets Kitty is only seventeen and that most high schoolers are more concerned about what other people think of them than making good grades or figuring out what to do with their lives. “Did you brush your Jewfro, Kitty?”

Her dark eyes scrunch in misery. “Not at first! I didn’t even want to come out of Morpho’s bathroom after how bad it was, but I couldn’t let you down.”

“Next time just leave it alone,” Erik snorts and watches in frustration as Kitty flinches. He’s no good at this. “Look, the less you touch your hair, the better it looks. The braids are good though. You look good.”

“Darwin saved me,” she admits. A hopeful smile begins to bud under his praise. “He’s an experienced fro-wrangler.”

Erik sees his own wry smile in the mirror as he starts cleaning the glass with alcohol. He remembers the trouble some of the kids he grew up with had with their hair, but he’d ended up with easier to control waves rather than tight Jewish curls. “Yeah, well you’re still ten minutes late. Get to work or you’re fired.”

“But you’re not even paying me for this,” Kitty exclaims in only half-mock outrage. “You can’t fire somebody you aren’t paying! See, my work is 100% guaranteed _or your money back_.”

Then she catches the glint in his pale eyes. Her arms cross and she narrows her eyes as shakes her head. “Erik, you jerk.”

“Set up the work bench,” he replies, dropping the smile. “If you want money, that’s fine, but don’t expect me to tell you how I do this.”

He sees it, cleaning the mirror from any trace of dirt or oil as he is, he can see her reflection and take in second-hand the moment she understands what he’s doing. There’s a divide between them as one who knowingly defies Halakha and one that conforms to the important precepts. He has no intention of tempting her to his side with his art of ink, needles, and blood. Instead he is offering her this.

She sucks in her lips and bites down on both, nods and then turns to unfold the table he brought and to set it up with his supplies. Seeing her face settle into an expression of determination, Erik finishes up with the alcohol. He checks his watch and then starts in on gridding out the glass with a straightedge and water-soluble pencil.

“Hey, Erik,” Kitty says as she places small paper cups, mesh, and a stapled stack of glossy magazine pages out for him. “What if somebody talks to me about something other than your work?”

“Unless it’s somebody you know, don’t encourage them,” Erik replies. The last thing he wants is some rich prick picking up on Kitty when his hands need to be at their steadiest. “If they flirt, roll up my sleeves and tell them I’m your boyfriend.”

“Okay. What if somebody talks to you?”

“Tell them I’m not listening.” He won’t be; trying to focus on painting on glass is one thing, but the mirror’s optical trickery is already beginning to bother him as he lays out his guiding lines.

“Okay. What if somebody I know talks to you?”

“Tell them not to bother me.”

“Okay. Oh, and what if I see Raven outside the window right now with two guys I’ve never seen before?”

Erik’s hands still. He refocuses from the line he’s drawing on the glass surface, to the mirror’s reflection of the street between Incubator and Morpho. He doesn’t see Raven, but he does see a few people gathered outside the window to look in. To his left, he hears Kitty snicker.

“Kitty, what should you do if you want to ask me anymore questions?”

“Probably get ready to get launched through the window?”

“That’s why you’re on the honor roll.”

A few minutes later he’s setting out his brushes, most of which have longer brushes than shafts, and quizzing Kitty on their uses. In the middle of his explanation, the doors open and Ororo’s group comes in from their lecture to see artists at work. Even though Ororo’s voice is authoritative and pleasant, Erik ignores her; he and the illuminated script artist are the last two stops before the guests are given free rein to observe people at their craft. He doesn’t look for Raven, or Charles, either; Raven wasn’t sure if they were coming for the lecture or only the show.

As Ororo and her guest lecturer, an internationally acclaimed calligrapher and illustrator, come through, Erik shows Kitty how to prepare the paint and load up and clean the brushes. It doesn’t take long before he sinks into the process and begins to lose track of his surroundings. His focus has to be particularly tight to concentrate on his lettering; Ororo asked for roundhand and decorative pin striping. Placing his lines properly is difficult when they float on the glass and in reverse beneath.

When he’s tattooing the focus comes faster, aided by both the scent of incense and the vibration of his tattoo machines. It’s like being a machine himself. He loses awareness of himself and simply becomes the execution of the process. It’s almost exactly like meditating, only his whole self is concentrated on completing a task rather than clearing his mind.

So he’s only peripherally aware when Ororo and her guest speaker arrive to discuss his art form and how it seems, on the surface, like a halfway point between the alibata calligrapher’s work and that of the illuminated script artist. He doesn’t pay attention to them; though he’s ready to pull back if his name is used. Eventually, he does hear his name attached to a question and he pulls himself further from his focus.

“Erik,” Ororo has asked, “what’s the most important part of your process?”

“Steady hands,” Erik replies, eyes still focused on his work. “Steady hands come with relaxing as much as possible and repeated practice.”

“He has really steady hands,” Kitty says helpfully.

“Erik also uses lettering as a tattoo artist,” Ororo tells the group. “For obvious reasons, it’s difficult for him to demonstrate his main art form in this kind of setting.”

“What is the greatest difference between tattooing and hand-lettering?” Though her guest lecturer, a tall man with a thick torso and graying hair, is asking, his tone of voice indicates he already knows the answer.

“Only one of them needs frequent health inspections, insurance, and haz mat equipment,” Erik replies dryly. “The two processes are more different than the same. I suppose feel is the biggest difference. A brush flows along the paint. A tattoo machine vibrates as it punctures skin and pushes ink beneath; there’s more resistance.”

“How did you get started in lettering and pinstriping?” The expert is now asking in honest curiosity, but Erik doesn’t like the question at all. “Kafka kits or internet tutorials?”

“A councilor got me into it in my teens,” Erik says, not caring that he doesn’t sound the least bit friendly. “I had a natural talent.”

Erik figures the man knows how to read the room, because he doesn’t ask any more direct questions. Instead he invites the group to watch Erik’s hands and to note how he uses one pinky to guide his hand over the mirror as he makes strokes. After a minute or so he reminds the group to come back once Erik’s done with lettering and moves on to pinstriping as it is as beautifully fluid as the alibata.

They move away and Erik submerges in the work again. He hands Kitty his first brush for cleaning and selects his second, which he loads up with red to lay over the gold that he laid down as a shadow. With the guest lecturer’s guided tour over, Erik doesn’t expect any interruptions so he falls deep into the work; gliding red letters over gold.

The conversations on his peripheral don’t reach him at all, not even when familiar voices come into range and Kitty’s words begin to take the shape of her usual teasing sarcasm. Not even when his hindbrain notes the cultured smarm in a man’s lightly accented English. He only knows he’s loading his brush and swiping it along on the stack of glossy adverts when he feels Kitty’s fingers on his sleeve, her thumbs pushing forward as her pointer and middle flip the waffle-weave back.

“So,” Kitty is saying as he continues to load and shape the brush, “you’ve met my boyfriend, Erik, right?”

It’s Raven’s laughter that brings him out of his trance, but the lettering is almost done and he doesn’t want to stop. The sleeve is rolled almost to his elbow displaying the tattoos that cover his forearm when he pulls his arm out of Kitty’s fingers. He swipes the brush through the paint on the magazine pages a few more times and returns to the mirror.

“But, Erik,” Kitty says playfully from beside him, “you said.”

“I know what I said Kitty,” Erik replies, “but I think flirting is Raven’s brother’s mother tongue.”

“Thank you for the vote of confidence.” It’s definitely Charles’ voice now that he’s listening; as if the diction hasn’t already given him away.

Erik changes his focus on the mirror so he can see Raven and her guests. Actually, no, he refocuses to look at Charles. Charles who he last saw that rainy night when he grabbed him by his clothes, who Erik has never seen without a suit on. He’s wearing denim and still looks like all his clothes came out of a Brooks Brothers catalog. Erik thinks he might need to put the brush down soon.

Erik asks, “Good flight?” Then lays down the next letter in flowing red paint; it looks perfect.

“Yes, it was,” Charles replies as Erik’s hand delivers the brush from a new point on the mirror to another. “We’re sorry about last night, but I was still quite tired and then there was flan with caramel sauce.”

“Janos made Charles flan,” Raven says. Next to her is a man Erik has only seen in images on her phone and tablet. A nervous-looking, young man in wire-framed glasses that continuously checks the show’s program rather than make eye contact via the mirror. Raven’s boyfriend, Hank.

A slight nod is answer enough, Erik decides. He turns to Kitty with the paintbrush, satisfied in his work and his continued steadiness. “Clean this; I’ll be doing the freehand striping in a minute.”

“Aye aye,” Kitty says and takes the brush and starts cleaning it in the cup of mineral spirits.

As she cleans the brush, swishing it back and forth in the liquid, Erik turns from the mirror and looks between the three. His focus flicks between them; Raven, Hank, Charles, and then back to Hank again. He reaches out to Hank with his right hand. “Nice to finally meet you.”

Hank smiles, though it is an uncomfortably nervous expression, and reaches back. The grip is, in Erik’s opinion, pathetic; too soft and just a clasp on his fingers rather than a full grip of hand. “I’m glad Raven is finally allowing me to make your acquaintance.”

At the corner of his vision, Erik sees Charles roll his eyes at Hank’s stilted language. He’s inclined to agree with the sentiment, but he trusts Raven’s instincts; Hank might be social train wreck, but he obviously has a spine when it comes to her. “Same. She makes you sound easily broken, but anyone who loves her whether she has tattoos or not is good with me.”

The statement isn’t meant as a barb against Charles, but when he sees Charles narrow his eyes, Erik knows how it was taken. Collateral damage isn’t his problem.

“Ah, actually, it was the tattoos that drew my attention,” Hank says, dropping his hand away. “Well, tattoo. It started there, so even though I didn’t—don’t have one, I appreciate them in a way I never did before Raven educated me. They’re fascinating. I think it’s interesting that tattoo ink stays in a liquid state beneath the skin and that the art is like a sort of medical art. And that each piece is valuable, but nontransferable; art that is collected, but can’t be worth more or less because, well, it can only have one owner, obviously.”

For a moment Erik can only stare at Hank. Maybe his handshake was ultimately weak, but it said nothing about Hank’s intellect or capacity for curiosity. All his intelligence and social awkwardness enhance his curiosity rather than allow the heaviness of society’s norms and mores to smother it.

Hank grows increasingly awkward under Erik’s stare. He looks down often and at Raven for affirmation, he switches his long, lanky weight from one foot to the other. Then Erik snorts softly and turns to Raven. “Not bad. How much of that is regurgitation and how much is him?”

Raven’s arm slips around Hank’s waist. She smiles. “As a comic book collector, he’s been really fascinated by the concept of art that can’t appreciate or depreciate in cash terms. But we talk about my art all the time and sometimes we talk about developing a line of inks that are better at resisting fading. I think my name has to be a lot bigger before we can even seriously think about that.”

A pink flush is slowly fanning out across Hank’s cheeks. He has mirrored Raven by putting his arm around her waist, but all eye contact is lost as he studies the floor or his feet in what must be embarrassment.

“You contribute,” Erik says to him. It’s an honest response, rather than an attempt at reassurance. Still, he supposes it can be taken however Hank wants to interpret it. “If you need a guinea pig someday, I’ll let Raven use me. She has a lot of random tattoos from my experimental needles and I’m willing to return the favor.”

The blush deepens in color and spreads all the way to his ears. “It’s just talk, but I’ve got a friend in optics over in Zurich who thinks it would be fun project. I think it coincides somehow with his love of tattooed speed metal artists. I don’t really know.”

A smile curves Erik’s lips, next to him Kitty can’t hold back a chuckle, and Raven kisses Hank’s cheek with a whispered endearment. Charles though, Charles doesn’t look the least bit amused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alibata (or Baybay) is an ancient script used in The Philippines and which was nearly wiped by Western colonization.


	7. Like liquid falling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles and Erik climb Multnomah Falls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has a bit of a cliff hanger which wouldn't be so bad if I wasn't on the cusp of a month of serious overtime. I was hoping to finish this before the next movie, but that looks totally unlikely.

 

 _Like liquid falling_  

Charles had hardly paid attention during the lecture preceding the show. He’d glimpsed Erik from the glass face of Incubator’s first floor and had felt no anxiety. He suspected the night before and he suspects now that training has given him new confidence, confidence bolstered by the knowledge that Erik doesn’t have any boxing experience. In a way, it’s too bad; Erik has a lovely physique with a long reach that would serve him well in a ring.

And maybe, just maybe, Charles’ specialty is getting inside long reaches where taller people can’t get a fist cocked back and delivering a flurry of devastating body blows. Not that a month of training has recaptured the level of skill he’d known back in his student days. For now he thinks it’s given him enough.

He had remained quiet through the show’s lecture, only paying attention when Hank (of course it would be Hank) asked a question. He thought about Raven and how they’d made up over flan and wine. Janos had gone out late in the evening and hadn’t returned. The other roommate, Sean, hadn’t come home until an obscene hour and was still asleep when Hank had arrived in the afternoon. Hank had taken them to lunch and then for a peaceful stroll around Portland’s Japanese Garden.

Raven hadn’t stopped apologizing for slapping him. Even as they sat in the lecture, she kept her hand in his rather than Hank’s. It’s hard to wrap his mind around; he isn’t a stranger to getting slapped or apologies, but Raven has always been different. They both have internalized far too much of Sharon, but it’s an affliction they both recognize and try to overcome.

After the lecture came the live demonstrations. The back of the program gave a brief introduction to each artist and a small head shot. Erik’s photo was the only one that was neutral, bordering on, to no surprise, belligerence. It was the same shot from the Quicksilver website as was the brief biography beside the photo. Charles had considered drawing on the photo, maybe giving Erik an impromptu mustache, but knowing his luck and recent trends, it could possibly end looking fetching instead of childishly insulting.

When they came to Erik and his teenage assistant, Charles stared at Erik’s hands. He was so controlled, so precise. The gallery’s owner, a statuesque woman with dark skin, a shock of white hair, and glorious silver stilettos, had explained that many hand-letterers preferred to use a blotting stick to rest their hands against as they painted. Erik, she explained, was unusual in his ability to use his pinky finger as a guide and still make the same flawless lines.

Charles couldn’t help wondering what those hands, beautiful, violent, steady hands, could do to a lover? Or maybe Erik’s hands were not so steady in the heat of passion? But though he obviously had passions, there was no hint of enjoyment on Erik’s face as he worked. He worked with focus and a frown of complete concentration that gave him a forbidding appearance. Such thoughts Charles found himself trying to physically shake from his head.

After the guided tour of the artists, they were released to wander freely to keep observing their work. Hank wanted to hare off to the gentleman doing illuminated script, to ask whether it was true in Byzantine times that snails were melted to give some paints an iridescent quality. However, Raven reined him in to go check in with Erik.

Erik’s assistant, Kitty, had been such an adorable bundle of teenage snark that Charles couldn’t help but flirt to draw out her orneriness. It hadn’t been hard; Charles was a natural flirt whether there was intent behind his words or not. Kitty, probably feeling safe with Erik and Raven present, had gleefully played along while Erik ignored everyone altogether. Until Kitty turned and began rolling up Erik’s left sleeve, exposing a lean, muscled forearm covered with ink and declared him her boyfriend.

That had seemed to get Erik’s attention. That or Raven’s ringing laughter. From there there was small talk and an introduction to Hank that went well for Hank, but was increasingly annoying for Charles. Really, telling Raven he approved of Hank solely on the grounds for loving her tattooed or not. As if he didn’t love her just as unconditionally!

To approve of Hank, easily-flustered, unambitious Hank because of something so trivial is an injustice. Maybe Hank sees Raven as an interesting sideshow curiosity rather than his brilliantly talented sister. Maybe Hank won’t be there for her when things go bad. Maybe the genetic lottery will land on the 5% chance that Raven’s offspring will inherit her flaw, what then? Does Hank even know about that? Does Erik?

But it’s Raven’s secret and after last night’s drama, he feels certain that even if Hank knows, Erik doesn’t. Or, if he does, he doesn’t realize just how much Raven’s personality revolves around her scars and her fear of being despised for them. It’s just another reason he sometimes thinks her interest in tattoos is evidence of cognitive dissonance. Certainly few of his own past lovers would have accepted him with tattoos _and_ a disfigurement. Raven deserves so much more than that after all their suffering.

“This show boring you?” Erik asks and with a glance Charles confirms that, yes, the question was directed at him.

“It might be a little pedestrian,” Charles says, but then tosses a wink at Kitty, “but the company is better than I expected.”

If Erik reads the backhanded compliment in the statement, he doesn’t show it. He doesn’t show much of anything as he turns back to his painting. “Kitty’s a good, Jewish girl. Don’t get your Gentile hopes up; her mother’s as stereotypical as they come.”

“Errrik,” Kitty groans. She closes her eyes and tilts her head back. “Please don’t be so embarrassing. Mr. Xavier and I were just playing around.”

“We were?” Charles grins; he definitely knows he’s better at this than Erik. “Why, Miss Pryde, you’ll break my heart.”

“Oh my G-d,” Kitty whines and drops her head forward, her cheeks flush pink like Hank’s. “Raven, seriously, how do you deal with this?”

Raven bumps Charles with her hip. “Well, when perseverance fails, I usually go scream into a pillow.”

Charles wants to slip an arm around Raven like he usually does, but Hank’s arm captured her waist when she finally released Charles’ hand. Annoyed again, though he’s done a good job of tallying points against Erik, Charles crosses his arms instead.

“I would never,” Charles says blithely, “make my own sister scream into a pillow. That’s disgusting, Raven.”

Hank chokes and Charles’ spirits lift. Kitty groans and looks at Raven in pity. Raven shoves Charles with her free arm. “I can’t take you anywhere.”

“Speaking of taking people anywhere,” Erik says, swiping his brush along the top of a stack of what looks like adverts. “Am I still taking Charles to Multnomah Falls Monday morning?”

Charles’ eyebrows raise slightly. He’d said he wanted to go there, but he’d assumed Raven would take him. He turns a questioning gaze on Raven and quirks one meticulously shaped brow at her in question.

Raven’s answering grin is a bit maniacal in nature. “Yes. I’ll take him shoe-shopping tomorrow. Unfortunately, I have plans Monday morning with Hank that I can’t get out of, so I won’t be going along.”

Sometimes Charles forgets that Raven is just as devious as himself and then a moment like this occurs and he kicks himself for getting blind-sided. “Ah.”

“It’s a beautiful place,” Hank says from Raven’s other side. “Raven and I’ve gone there a couple times. This is the right time of year to go; not much rain to worry about. If you go early enough you might not have to worry about so many tourists.”

“Trail opens at 9am,” Erik says, still brushing along the paint on the adverts. “But I know one of the rangers, so I usually go earlier to avoid all the tourists. We can talk about it after I’m done with this.”

“That we can,” Charles returns. He watches Erik swipe the brush back and forth through his paint a few more times and then lift the brush up. Erik turns back to the mirror, his face composed once again in his usual focus.

With his lettering finished, Charles supposes the next bit will be the pinstriping the lecturer mentioned. He has a vague idea of what it is, but waits quietly just to see. Beside him Raven has grown still, perhaps infected by Erik’s focus or interested in what he’ll do.

Using a grid on the mirror’s surface makes the work look more mathematical, but Erik’s hands, held aloft on the flexible pedestal of his pinky fingers, deliver paint in short dabs, long straight lines, and sweeping curves. The lines double back on themselves in puzzles of geometry that remind him vaguely of Celtic knotwork.

Erik’s hands are a wonder, Charles admits. Even if the man is coarse and confrontational, there is some beauty in his hands to make up for it. Maybe he wouldn’t mind Erik’s brush sweeping over him. What kind of pattern would he produce? But, as Erik said earlier, tattooing and painting have little common ground. Skin offers resistance where glass does not and it isn’t Erik’s brush that he’s supposed to endure, but his needles and Charles’ blood.

Disillusionment creeps in and Charles turns away from the sight, though he sees in his mind’s eye, the way Erik’s muscles shift under the ink on his uncovered forearm. He says nothing, but walks quietly away and pretends to observe the other artists. Internally he’s doing damage control, trying to fathom what Raven intends to get out of setting him and Erik out on a hike together. Does she think they’ll come to an understanding?

As he walks, he sees Incubator’s owner. Ororo Munroe is hard to miss; lovely and stately combined, she’s more the kind of person he’s used to socializing with. She’s a good contact for Raven and there’s no doubt in his mind that if she knew of Raven’s paintings a show in Incubator wouldn’t be out of the question. In fact, luckily for Raven, he has her fine art portfolio bookmarked on his phone’s browser.

He directs his path to intercept that of Munroe’s, deftly cutting through her hangers’ on like a hawk through a flight of pigeons. Charles is immediately pleased to discover that Munroe not only knows of Raven’s show, but that she has one of the few collaborative, letter-pressed invitations.

* * *

 

Erik makes his way across the bridge to Raven’s building in Eastside, peddling his Felt along the roads without much worry about traffic. The blinking, red LED strapped to the back of the bicycle illuminates the fog behind him and the white one on the handlebars strobes before him. If they’re lucky, fog will be hanging thick in the Columbia River Gorge before wind blows it out to sea. The mist builds and streams from his raincoat and coats his legs in a light sheen. It feels good on his skin.

The ramp down into the industrial neighborhood is bumpy and with a lack of suspension in the Felt’s carbon fiber frame, his wrists feel every jolt. He coasts along, avoiding the pits in the road and the ruts the big trucks leave in the asphalt. Wary of the criminal elements that are still fighting the gentrification of the area, Erik doesn’t bother locking his bike when he arrives; he dismounts and hoists its negligible weight over his shoulder instead.

It’s a little awkward going through the building’s front door, but the stairwell is wide enough that he has no trouble negotiating its turns with the bicycle over his shoulder. He checks his watch once he reaches Raven’s door and deems it not an ungodly hour to knock. Erik’s knuckles rap loudly against the hollow wooden door and echo on the other side. He’s glad Raven’s room is closest to the loft’s door; he can hear some stumbling around, Raven mumbling and what is likely Charles’ confused reply.

Smirking to himself, Erik turns his fist and pounds on the door instead. The resulting mumbling sharpens into a distraught plea for Erik to fuck off (Raven) and a declarative statement that, yes, we’re awake (Charles). Not inclined to be kind, Erik blows a light snort and knocks even harder, rattling the door in its frame.

Amidst stumbling and cursing, he hears a door open and footsteps, too heavy to be Raven’s, come close. The doorknob twists and the door and doorframe shudder, but the door doesn’t open.

“You have to push on the knob before turning it,” Erik says patiently from the hall. “Raven doesn’t want me to fix it.”

“Bloody hell,” Charles says from the other side. The knob turns left and right and the door shudders once more, but remains closed. “Why the hell not? Is this yet another hipster notion of hers to appear poor even though she’s bloody, filthy rich?”

Since the door is remaining stubbornly closed, Erik shrugs, hiking his bicycle up in the motion. “Maybe.”

He knew she had a trust fund, but to hear her posh brother say she’s filthy rich gives him a better idea of what kind of money she actually has access to. Not for the first time, Erik wonders why Raven hasn’t made use of it since completing their stupid bet. It isn’t a question he’ll ask.

Another twist of the doorknob and finally Charles swings the door back into the sun-starved space. He’s disheveled; hair a mess, short-sleeved t-shirt twisted askew around his ribs, blue boxers wrinkled. Erik decides that Charles’ best feature is not his cliché eyes of sky blue, but his broad chest and muscled thighs. Charles has the kind of thighs that allude to prolonged bouts of rough sex; Erik’s preferred variety.

Erik flicks his eyes back up to Charles’ face, expression wry. “I told you to be ready at seven.”

Charles rubs aggressively at his eyes with the backs of his hands. “It’s not even half past six, you bastard.”

“I know,” Erik agrees and walks past Charles to hang up his bicycle on the hook he installed in the brick wall not six feet from the door. He slides his backpack off next and sets it beneath and follows up by hooking his raincoat’s hood over the Felt’s seat. His helmet goes on the bag, the cycling glasses he pushes up into his damp hair. “I want to make sure you’re ready. If you have new shoes, you’re going to need thick socks and moleskin since you probably didn’t break them in yesterday. Did you get any food to take with you? Do you have water?”

Charles hasn’t moved from the door when Erik turns around. The doorknob is still in his hand, but he has twisted from the waist and is looking at Erik with sleep-bleary eyes. “It’s an inhuman hour of the morning and you’re going to come in here and immediately start nagging? I hope you had a troubled childhood, because being born a morning person is a perfectly reasonable excuse to hate anyone.”

“I’m sure you have more excuses than that,” Erik replies, and heads for the refrigerator. “And if you don’t, I think I can work on it.”

Behind him he hears the door shut and the soft step of Charles’ bare feet across the worn, factory floorboards. Erik listens closely, tracks Charles as he follows, but then stops at the kitchen table. Charles pauses there as Erik opens the refrigerator and looks the contents over. The middle shelf is Raven’s and is packed with takeout boxes. Fortunately most of them have dates written on the top of them.

Janos’ shelf is respectably fresh and basic as ever, though the presence of a small jar of Russian caviar at the front suggests that the model’s lover is in town. Sean’s shelf is at the bottom and always seems in danger of crawling out and usurping Raven’s of its own free will. Erik sees eggs on Janos’ shelf and Sean’s and has to decide quickly between stealing Janos’ which will be fresh, but will make him feel like a thief, and Sean’s which are of indeterminate age and will be more of a liberation.

He reaches in and snags two of Sean’s. “I’ll make you breakfast while you get your things together.”

“Did you just take something from the bottom shelf? Did you wake me up this early because you thought I wouldn’t notice you trying to kill me?”

"If you had already gotten yourself something to eat,” Erik snorts, “I wouldn’t be resorting to desperate measures. Besides, eggs are remarkably resilient. I had a carton that was still good after two months.”

“I really wouldn’t take any chances on that shelf,” Charles says. “There’s takeout on Raven’s shelf that’s fresh.”

“I know,” Erik replies, setting the eggs on the bench so he can start looking through said boxes. “Go get ready so we can save time. We want to be up the falls before tourists get there.”

Though he huffs in frustration, Erik hears Charles move away, mumbling about food poisoning as he goes. Erik nods with the small victory and places a box with the remains of what is likely an enchilada on the counter. Fine, he can work with that; eggs always go with Mexican food.

Taking down one of Janos’ pans from the rack over the stove, Erik turns on the stove and pours a little olive oil in the pan. Cooking isn’t his best skill, but he’s proficient at putting together decent food from leftovers and if he has the urge he can follow most recipes. As a single man with no roommate, though, he often doesn’t find complex cooking worth it. He eats at a halfway point between Raven’s takeout and Janos simple, fresh produce approach.

Absorbed in his task, he focuses on warming up the enchilada and using a bit more olive oil to turn the congealed sauce liquid once more. When that doesn’t work he turns to more drastic measures; dicing it up with the spatula to go inside an omelet instead of next to a couple of fried eggs.

“That actually smells good,” Charles says when he emerges from Raven’s room. “Thank you.”

Erik nods, but doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t look up from the pan even when Charles pauses next to him. The silence feels comfortable to Erik, but he can feel Charles’ gaze on him like he expects him to speak. Erik sees no need, so only shakes his head minutely when Charles huffs a frustrated sigh and walks past to the bathroom.

“You’ll sweat a lot so no need to shower,” Erik says when he hears the bathroom door close. There are a several sheets of plastic over the bathroom walls serving as a makeshift ceiling since none of the walls the tenants have constructed in the loft go all the way to the high factory ceiling. Erik declined putting in a drop ceiling for them when asked; Raven’s was hard enough. Charles’ shower goes on regardless.

“I’ll be quick,” Charles replies, his voice carrying easily over the bathroom’s walls. Erik’s certain the sweetness in Charles’ tone is present just to annoy him. It does.

Fighting down his irritation at having his instructions ignored, Erik grabs both eggs and cracks them one-handed against the pan.

And immediately gags and swears in Yiddish at the stench of rancid sulfur that billows up from the broken shells.

Acting on instinct, he twists his right hand up so the thick albumen and flat yolks don’t fall into the pan, rather they stay mostly in their shells. Only some of the rancid liquid drips out into his palm and sticks to his fingers. He runs quickly to the factory window that opens onto the fire escape and shoves it up with his left hand. His right hand cocks back and he slings the broken eggs quickly out into the alley.

Unfortunately, only one sails into the empty air; the other hits the fire escape’s rail. The force of Erik’s throw means most of the egg’s mass splits off above and below the rail to shoot off into the space between two buildings. However, a great deal of putrid yolk clings to the rusted rail and seeps into the peeling paint and rust fissures.

Erik swears in German this time, shuts the window immediately, and jogs back to the sink to wash the remains of the rotten eggs from his hand.

“Everything okay out there?” Charles calls from the bathroom.

“Yes,” Erik says and dumps soap into his hand and turns on the water. He’s barely even started soaping up when he hears Charles give a shout.

“Christ! What the hell are you doing out there!”

“Washing my hands,” Erik replies. “Give me a second.”

“You’re doing that on purpose! What are you? Six? Turn that off!”

Instead, Erik washes his hands a little longer than strictly necessary and then feels like a child for retaliating. He shuts the water off and turns back to the sizzling enchilada mixture: the air smells more of sulfur than it does anything else. The mixture gets another quick stir and then Erik is going through the cabinets for Janos’ wisely-bought air deodorizer. 

The air gets a quick spritz of something ‘mountain fresh’ that smells like no mountain Erik has ever been to. The spray goes back into the cabinet and two eggs from the top shelf come out and go straight in the pan. He’ll pay Janos for them later; certainly they’re worth the price of staving off certain humiliation. Instead of an omelet, however, he just scrambles the eggs into the enchilada mixture.

At least Charles’ shower is brief as he said and not prolonged in turn as retaliation for being hit with cold water. He comes out later with a towel wrapped around his waist and heads straight to Raven’s room. Erik spoons the food out into the nearest bowl and sets a little aside for himself. He checks the fridge for lime, but doesn’t see any, so he resorts to a little bottle of lemon on the fridge’s door. He douses his in lemon and closes the fridge once more.

He’s eaten and washed his plate and the pan by the time Charles comes out in shorts and rain jacket. Erik hands him the bowl of food. “You don’t need the rain coat; it isn’t really raining, just misting and fog. It only collected on me because I rode my bicycle through it.”

“I’ll bring it just in case,” Charles says with a shrug after he’s swallowed a bite of food. “Thank you for breakfast; the eggs aren’t as horrible as I thought they’d be.”

Erik doesn’t reply, since the eggs were, in fact, as horrible as Charles thought they would be. “You look like you lost a little weight since last time I saw you. Your face is more defined. Change your eating habits or start exercising harder?”

“Took boxing back up,” Charles’ eyes fix on Erik’s for a moment. “I used to box in school. I wasn’t the best but I carried my weight.”

Somehow, this news relieves Erik in a way he doesn’t understand or want to analyze. He just nods in response. “That should help you get up the switchbacks. I think of it as training, but Multnomah is beautiful.”

“I didn’t expect you to take such a close look at my face,” Charles says, looking down at the bowl as he spears more food with his fork.

“It’s human nature to look at faces,” Erik replies, annoyed that Charles is scoring another point on him. “Isn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” Charles says with a smirk. “I’m not a developmental psychologist.”

Resorting to his usual tactic when a conversation becomes too much trouble, Erik simply drops it and turns to other things. While Charles eats, probably chuckling to himself as he does, Erik goes to his bag and takes his bicycle helmet back out and hangs it on a handlebar. He goes through his backpack until he finds the keys to his truck; Raven always takes his spares which he keeps at Quicksilver just in case she needs it.

The problem with Charles taking this annoying approach to get on his nerves is the presence of a truth that Erik finds impossible to understand. Charles is representative of so many things he hates about people, but he has an underlying animal interest that resembles a raw nerve exposed to the elements. And Charles is raining on it.

“Do you have water?” Erik repeats.

“Raven is loaning me her travel bottle.”

“Yes is good enough.” He swings the keys around his index finger and catches them in the palm of his hand. Then swings them once more for good measure; just to feel them hit solidly against his palm. “Let’s go.”

“My hair isn’t dry,” Charles protests, but turns away to wash his bowl quickly and set into the rack on the counter.

“It will be by the time we get there,” Erik snorts. He doesn’t wait a moment longer; he swings his back pack onto his shoulder and heads out the door. Behind him he hears Charles scramble for his shoes and water bottle.

“Let me get my shoes on at least!”

           

Though he takes the direct path along I-84, the fog is already lifting from the Columbia River as they pull up to Multnomah Falls’ visitor parking. Erik finds its departure a shame; it makes for dangerous footing in combination with the fall’s mist, but he enjoys running up the cliff face with the fog and mist to refresh him. It adds an element of mystery that soothes him much like his incense smoke.

With Charles at his side, he’s glad he meditated for an hour before leaving for Eastside; he’s already treading the periphery of agitation. Charles has no backpack, but his portion of water and snacks will sufficiently add a little more weight to the journey. They join Erik’s usual supplies and promise more of a challenge despite the slower pace he expects to take.

Erik’s park ranger friend lets them through with no questions; she’s one of Raven’s customers. She and Erik got along well when she was in Quicksilver and she’d recognized him from his frequent visits to the falls. Now she lets him in early so he can avoid the crowds.

“The lower end is more scenic,” Erik says as they walk along to the lower basin and the platform that precedes it. “Most people don’t go all the way to the top, just to the bridge, but the view up there is beautiful.”

The sun has yet to rise over the falls, but there’s plenty of indirect light to see by. The wooded area is lush and dark with coniferous trees, ferns, and moss. The trail they’ll use is hidden behind greenery and rock. Even in the summer it is cold around the falls but Erik hasn’t brought an extra jacket, because he usually breaks a sweat on the trail. Erik is wears a thin, long-sleeved shirt paired with cargo shorts.

Erik goes through his stretching routine while Charles explores the lower basin. Years and weight slip from Charles as he looks around; there’s something of a child’s curiosity and wonder about him as he looks at the basin from the path and then jogs up to the platform to see it up close.

“The website says they do weddings here,” Charles comments, when he finally seems satisfied enough to join Erik in stretching. “It seems like a nice place for it, despite the inclement elements.”

The summer is usually safe from rain, but Erik doesn’t say so, not wanting to find himself on the topic of weddings with Raven’s brother. He doesn’t want to talk to him about much of anything; all subjects seem equally likely to end in an argument with Charles. Maybe that’s what attracts him in the first place; Erik has been arguing for most of his life.

“We’ll go when you’re ready,” Erik says, standing up and pulling the backpack around so he can take his water bottle out and swallow a gulp of cold water. Unfortunately, the pack will warm up as his back heats up. For that reason he only adds M&Ms and their ilk in his trail mixes; everything else melts together in a gooey mess.

“I run this route almost every week.” He watches as Charles stretches. “So don’t think of this as a competition and hurt yourself.” When Charles dips down, folding his chest close to his knees, Erik stares at the pale skin his shorts expose on the back of his thighs. He doubts that stretch of skin sees much sunlight. But moonlight? Surely.

Charles comes up from stretching his calves with a snort, but Erik doesn’t look away from him; just away from his thighs. “You don’t even know how I train for boxing. I do uphill climbs on a treadmill and indoor climbing courses to strengthen my arms. It’s not all speed and body bags anymore.”

“Your funeral,” Erik says dismissively; there are plenty of martial artists in his cross fit classes, after all. But with thighs and calves like Charles’, he isn’t going to be surprised if he actually does keep up for a bit. All the same, he has no intention of taking the climb at his normal pace. “It’s hard for a first-timer to gauge a climb like this.”

“I’ll be fine,” Charles replies, scuffing his new trail shoes against the pavement. “If I have trouble I’ll say. I’m not stupid.”

Erik heads to the path that leads to Benson Bridge. From there they’ll depart pavement and head along the trail and eventually the multiplicities of switchbacks that lead up the cliff. “It isn’t your intelligence I question.”

On his heels, Charles retorts, “My common sense, is it?”

The answer rings clear in Erik’s ears; he picks up speed, heading into the coolness of the wood at a measured lope. “A fox knows the smell of his own den.”

“How hypocritical.” Charles jogs along, right on his tail, crowding behind him on the path. “You and Raven are these self-righteous avengers against stereotypes, but you clearly have me stereotyped as an academics that has more intelligence than common sense.”

“Common sense isn’t common,” Erik replies and picks up his pace to get Charles off his back. “I never said anything about stereotypes. I _am_ a stereotype; the overly-blunt, asshole tattoo artist. I don’t have anything against culture or counter-culture; I have a problem with bullshit and pretense.”

“Ah, then you’re saying I’m pretentious.”

“Charles, your pretentiousness is second to your self-centeredness.” Erik adds a little more speed to his legs. He focuses on the feel of his shoes hitting the pavement that leads to the bridge and finding solid purchase with each push. “You make everything about you.”

“You can’t deny that you just made a jab at me with that bullshit and pretense line.” Charles is doing a good job of keeping up, but it’s still early and Erik isn’t yet at even seventy-five percent. Erik considers turning up the speed and leaving Charles behind or just ignoring him. But he does neither. He stops.

With no way to anticipate Erik’s sudden halt, Charles can’t avoid the collision. On instinct, his forearms come up just in time to absorb most of the impact against Erik’s back. Erik takes the brunt of Charles’ weight on his backpack, grimaces as one of the water bottles digs in hard, and eases up the steep incline a few steps with Charles’ momentum. When he turns, Charles jumps back, his expression struggling between apologetic and accusatory, his hands stay up; loose and defensive.

“What the bloody hell are you doing?” Against the dark background, his eyes are bright with weak sunlight filtered by trees and the fall’s mist.

Erik settles his hands at his sides, fingers stretching back, palms pale and facing his thighs. The stretch and burn of overextending his fingers keeps him present. Staring at Charles, he counts back from five before he trusts himself to speak.

“I’m only going to explain this once,” Erik says, voice low, face tilted down until he’s looking at Charles from below the deep set of his brow. “I like Multnomah Falls. I like coming here in the morning and taking a run up to the top. Raven asked me to bring you here because you told her you wanted to visit and she considers me the expert of the two of us.”

Charles’ expression continues to struggle, but now it’s headed for a guarded form of confusion. “Yes, I know that. You don’t need to explain it.”

“No,” Erik continues, slowly, torturously slowly; each syllable a count backwards from violence, “I do need to explain it, because you’ve turned it into something revolving around you. This is _for_ you, but it isn’t _about_ you. It isn’t about me and an agenda against you.”

“You’re doing this,” Charles says with a laugh, “ _for_ me. Don’t give me that; you’re doing it for Raven.”

Anger bubbles up in Erik’s chest, exactly where he doesn’t want it to be. From there it’s a volatile thing that can spread to his fists or consume his head in a wash of red. Multnomah is supposed to be a safe place; cool, green, and humid. He focuses on the roar of the falls and breathes deep, wills it to enter his chest with every inhale to extinguish the growing heat. The scent of dark earth and rich vegetation passes through his nose on the way to his lungs. In his mind’s eye, he buries the fire with moist earth and covers it in sheets of moss.

Erik turns away from a wary-looking Charles for a break in the intensity. Facing back up the trail he says, “We’ll stop on the bridge to check on your feet; should be enough wear to identify trouble spots and it’ll give you time to take in the view. I’ve got moleskin in my pack.”

“This is just like that night when Raven and I picnicked in the rain,” Charles says from behind. “I didn’t pretend you weren’t angry or violent then, Erik, and I won’t start now.”

Erik snorts softly but doesn’t look back. “I never asked you to.”

The rest of the way to Benson Bridge goes without interruptions of human communication. As the way becomes dark, wet, and cacophonous with the fall’s roar, there’s little evidence of Charles behind him. He takes the paved way with a slow pace, stretching a journey that is less than an American football field, albeit uphill, into a near walk. Even so, with less than a minute to control himself, his anger melts away as the pavement opens up to the bridge and the trees open to the heavy mist of the falls.

He slows to a walk, closes his eyes, and walks onto the bridge blind, allowing himself to be overwhelmed by the tremble of the earth, the roar of the water, and the cool spray that collects on his face and the backs of his hands. The power of the mighty falls shakes loose his rage and douses it cool.

* * *

Charles doubts that the run, if that’s what Erik wants to call it, is long enough to really make much of an impression on his new trail-running shoes. He feels not unlike a cat that has ceased its hissing and spitting but is ready to fly right back into its righteous indignation. He’s especially furious that Erik could take what he wanted to be a simple hike in a beautiful landscape and reduce it to petty bitterness.

Almost the whole way to the bridge, Charles glares at Erik’s back, driving holes through his long, trim body. If there were any fact at all to the old world’s evil eye, he’s sure the man would have dropped dead under the magnitude of ill will.

Because he has his glare trained on Erik’s back, he sees it when Erik’s tight, disciplined form inexplicably begins to unravel into a loose organization of limbs. Within seconds, the snap of Erik’s intensity shifts from something technical into the organic. It’s a sight that makes its mark, but is swept aside as Charles’ attention is blasted from Erik by the thunderous presence of the fall’s two tiers.

Since this majestic fall is a place Erik obviously enjoys, Charles wants to be dismissive of it. He calls to mind Niagara Falls and all her panoramic glory. However, the two falls are completely different; Multnomah is high and thin, a tiny slice of Niagara, but it is also enclosed by the wooded cliffs. For all it looks and feels like a never-ending roll of thunder, the fall is oddly intimate despite its fierce power.

For an unknown amount of time, Charles stares up at the top tier, letting his hair grow damp with a net of spray; his eyes squint at the brightening blue of the sky above. The percussion of the falls shakes him in parody of an anxiety attack, but the beauty of the place makes him feel calmer despite the sensation. Charles takes a deep breath of cool air, heavy with moisture and the scent of Douglas fir. He allows himself to be taken by a sense of wonder he so rarely feels outside the lab anymore.

Once the sense of wonder has run its proper course, like the afterglow of sex with none of the despair that waits for his lovers to depart, it leaves him on the bridge and under Erik’s cool regard. Like this, swallowed in nature’s channeled fury, Erik seems less violent, somewhat subdued; a fire pit that has drawn morning dew.

“I’ll wait for you on the other side,” Erik says, voice loud to be heard over the roar. “It’s a little drier so the moleskin won’t get wet.”

“Actually, why don’t we go a little further?” Charles shouts back without his prior venom. He glances at his feet and then over the stone rail where the lower step of the falls crashes into the pool below. “I don’t feel anything rubbing yet and it wasn’t much of a workout to get this far.”

It takes Erik long enough to respond that Charles looks up from the pool far below, but he catches no irritation on Erik’s face, just the usual frown of thoughtfulness.

“You’re probably right.” Erik casts his gaze away, to the other side of the bridge. “Take your time here. I’ll wait.”

Charles stares at Erik’s back as he walks away, this time with none of the death wish. His eyes track down to Erik’s right calf and the swirls of ink that curl down from beneath the edge of his long shorts. He’s never seen that one and he’s not sure if the sinuous curves there are meaningless strokes, octopus tentacles, or even unfurling ferns.

As Erik retreats from into the cover of the mist and Douglas firs, Charles finds himself wondering at the possible menagerie of animals just beneath his skin. Hadn’t Hank said tattoo ink remained fluid beneath the skin? So, then, a menagerie of animal shapes held in suspended animation. By that token, Charles muses, it would be fitting if Erik’s calf tattoo was an octopus or squid. Not so the dragon, which was all blood and a sense of fire.

It comes to Charles next that he still hasn’t seen the finished version of Raven’s journeyman piece. Erik’s blue, long-sleeved shirt with its faded screen print covers his arms to the wrists, its crew collar is close to his neck; only his right leg hints at any tattoo coverage at all. It’s a mystery to him why anyone in Erik’s industry would hide away his profession like that. Certainly Raven never does unless she’s driving.

Charles looks back to the roaring water before closing his eyes a few seconds just to feel the vibration of the fall’s power and the way its wind blows his hair around. He takes another breath of fresh, clean air and then opens his eyes and walks to the other side of the bridge. Erik is waiting further up the path, expression as serious as always, the permanent line between his eyebrows deep as ever.

“Penny for your thoughts.” It’s only a little quieter here, but he doesn’t have to raise his voice like they did on the bridge.

Erik’s lashes flutter slightly as he looks over at Charles, almost as if he never even noticed his approach. As Charles watches, Erik jerks his head minutely back and forth; it’s such a tiny, quick movement it looks like a localized shudder or tic. “I was just thinking about a good place to stop. It’s about a mile up from here and most of it is steep as hell. Then it’s another mile right back down.”

“Sure you are,” Charles chuckles. “An expert on this trail really needs such a long time to contemplate a stopping point?”

Charles means well, but he forgets that he hasn’t meant well with Erik since spring. Erik reminds him with a quick narrowing of eyes and a sharp retort. “How does anyone ever have a conversation with you?”

“Damn,” Charles breathes as he watches Erik’s body language pull tight, back into the coiled springs of before. He’s aware the fall cast a spell and he doesn’t want the swell of peace to ebb. “Wait. Erik, I didn’t mean it like that.”

Skepticism is a natural expression on Erik’s face; it remains there as Erik’s body stills, but the furrow at his brow deepens in concentration. Charles feels Erik’s whole focus narrow down to him and though he’s felt that focus before, Charles knows this is dangerous. Having somebody’s attention is always exhilarating, but Erik’s attention is a thing that pierces with its force.

Charles’ heart constricts under the tight gaze. It takes far too long to realize that Erik isn’t going to say anything. Slowly, he remembers this is an uncomfortable habit of Erik’s. It’s hypocritical in light of his last complaint, but sometimes Erik simply passes when his turn in a conversation comes up.

Perhaps, Charles thinks, he has the opposite problem with conversation that Erik has. A drop of water slides down a lock of Charles’ hair and falls on the outer edge of his cheekbone. He notices it is far colder here than it was by the truck. “Can we, I don’t know, can we have a truce? A relaxation of hostilities?”

Erik looks down, eyes nearly closing with the glance, but they are open and clear when he looks up. His broad shoulders lose some of their tension. “I’m willing to try.”

“Excellent,” Charles replies with a smile and begins walking toward Erik. Erik turns to walk up the path as Charles comes in step beside him. “And I promise to tell you the moment the shoes get uncomfortable. I actually did wear them last night around the loft, so they’re a little broken.”

Another lack of words comes as a reply, but from the corner of his eye he sees Erik nod.

“So we’re agreed?” Charles prompts.

Erik turns his head to look at Charles again; his caution is evident when he nods. “I’ll trust you on this. Ready to go?”

“Always,” Charles says loftily, but with a quirked eyebrow to communicate that he’s taking the piss out of himself.

Erik snorts in response, but there’s no disdain there; he’s understood. “Let’s go.”

And then he’s off and Charles is quick to follow over wet earth and into the heights and depths of the wood that climbs the cliffs.

If the ground isn’t damp from the falls, it is damp with dew; along the trail isn’t warm or dry enough to evaporate. Some patches of the trail are so thick with conifers and ferns that Charles doubts they ever feel the heat of sunlight. In fact, the temperature within the woodland seems too chill for short sleeves unless, like he and Erik, a run is underway.

Part of the way goes over run-off that has taken a different route than that flung from the waterfall. He watches Erik’s footing amongst the rocks in the thin stream, but Charles determines his own path when he sees Erik’s longer stride doesn’t suit him. There’s moss everywhere along the way and Charles takes pains not to slide across the treacherously thin covering of it and land in the water.

When they make it to the switchbacks, Charles asks for a halt as he’s beginning to feel where his new shoes are beginning to rub. It helps that he can take a moment to breathe more easily, too. He hands one shoe to Erik with a sock stuffed within in exchange for the packet of moleskin and a pair of small scissors. As soon as Charles has the moleskin cut and stuck to his heel and a strip along the outer edge of his big toe and the ball of his foot, he trades the packet for his shoe. They repeat the trade for Charles’ other foot and at the end, once his shoes are back on and tied, he stands up to find Erik offering him Raven’s water bottle.

The stop is ten minutes at most, enough for Charles to catch his breath, and then they’re off. Charles quickly finds the steep switchbacks tiring; no amount of stair climbing and uphill climbs on a treadmill prepared him for conditions over natural terrain. It’s challenging, but the growing burn in his thighs and calves feels good, and perhaps the view is better than he expected; not that of the woods, but Erik’s ass.

The incline of each switchback is such that he can see further up Erik’s shorts than before. His right calf isn’t covered in tentacles at all; the tattoo is an arrangement of plant-like silhouettes, flat paint-style shadings, and more swirls that echo the organic theme, but in negative space. Erik’s left leg seems to have no tattoos, but he can’t see much more of his legs above the back of his thigh.

Fifteen minutes into it and the back of Erik’s blue shirt is dark with sweat beneath the black back pack and where the straps press against him. Charles can relate; his shirt is sticking to his back and chest and the waistband of his shorts is wet. If he’d been on a track, or running through the labyrinthine streets of Oxford, Charles could have run the length of the path more than twice. Even so, he still can’t see the top. The sky continues to brighten until he catches glimpses of the Columbia River and the sunlight that is filling the gorge through the trees.

Though the air is frigid, Charles pauses in the middle of one switchback to peel his shirt off and drape it over his neck. The cold air hits his sweaty torso with a welcome slap to his senses. He grabs each end of the draping shirt and starts to continue up. However, Erik has stopped right above him on the next switch back and is looking at him with his usual intensity.

“Am I going too fast?” he asks and swings the backpack around to withdraw water bottles.

Charles shrugs and catches Raven’s bottle when Erik drops it down to him. “I’m not used to spending so much energy trying to keep my balance, I think. In the gym everything is uniform and as safe as can be. Out here,” he sweeps the water bottle out wide to indicate the whole area, “I’m constantly compensating for the natural terrain.”

Erik nods. “We’ll walk five minutes and then run the rest of the way up. There’s a good view of the gorge up there and a little off the path there’s an area we can rest.”

By the time they get to the top, Charles is so worn out that he’s not sure he’ll be able to appreciate the view of the Columbia River Gorge. He’s sweating profusely, locks of hair are sticking to his face, and his chest is heaving. Erik is winded, but since he makes the same climb every week, he is in much better shape. He waits ahead of Charles in a clear patch at the top of the path, a few meters from where the stream vaults from the cliff. The sun is behind the trees, but it pierces the canopy and dapples them both in bright freckles of dancing light.

Charles draws up even with Erik and turns to take in the valley as the falls’ wind rushes about them. Though he’s seen both the Grand Canon and Niagara Falls, the Columbia Gorge from nearly two hundred meters up is no less thrilling. The gorge is wide, deep, and green, filled with the shining surface of the Columbia River. Across the river’s surface are speeding boats and the tiny triangles of wind surfer sails.

“It’s lovely,” Charles says, though his words are feeble in the face of the natural grandeur. “I see why you come here so often.”

“I don’t notice the view as much anymore,” Erik replies. Charles detects a note of disappointment in the comment. “I suppose I started to take it for granted.”

Charles shakes his head, but it isn’t a matter of disgust, rather it’s the beginnings of understanding; he knows the feeling. “It happens. You probably don’t feel the beauty and majesty like you did because you expose yourself to it so often. I suppose I’m jaded in baser ways; many of the people I work with have minds that are natural wonders all their own, but when that’s the lay of the land it sometimes seems mundane.”

An answering snort brings Charles around. Erik is shaking his head. “I don’t know if you’re being an asshole or not right now.”

Tired in body, but not in mind, Charles quickly checks the set of Erik’s broad shoulders and finds little of the tension he’s used to seeing. “My friend,” Charles says through a devious smile, “rest your fears; I’m always an asshole.”

The same snort bursts from Erik, but this time it is more clearly a noise of amusement and Charles dares to think that Erik may not be immune to his charm after all. Didn’t Raven say Erik needed time to get used to people? Maybe that was her plan; get them to spend time together in order to hash out whether they were going to get along at all or be written off entirely and kept far apart.

Erik turns away and heads up and into the wood, clambering over a few rocks that don’t seem to be part of the trail. Charles follows in his wake, his eyes drawn back to the shape of Erik’s ass as his legs rise and fall with the climb. He thinks of Janos’ ass, but then dismisses any thoughts of comparing them under the same logic he dismissed comparisons of other natural wonders.

This time the journey doesn’t take them very far; Erik’s destination is further back along the stream amongst the ferns and coniferous litter. Despite the lack of clouds and the growing height of the sun, it is dark here but for a few rays of light that break through the canopy.

Erik pulls his backpack off and sits along a log that spans the rocks and rushing water. Undecided, Charles stands near him, not willing to sit side-by-side; he feels as if he needs to stay face to face with Erik. As Erik rummages through the pack, Charles solves his logistical problem by straddling the fallen tree so he faces Erik’s profile. He hopes the position will make Erik uncomfortable enough to turn to mirror him.

Erik doesn’t disappoint; he turns toward Charles without looking up and throws a long leg over the log. He picks up the backpack and resituates it between them on the tree. From within he draws out a pair of waxed paper bags. The tops are folded over several times and kept securely closed by a rubber band around them. The contents rustle as Erik hands one over.

Charles takes it, but he doesn’t investigate; he’s too busy staring at the wet stripes the backpack’s straps left on Erik’s shirt. They remind him of the large, black stripe that slashes over Erik’s shoulder and down the side of his long torso. He’s never seen how long it really is since it disappears under the waistband of Erik’s pants. Charles wonders how far down his body it goes or if Erik’s cock is tattooed or pierced. He then wonders at Raven’s finished journeyman piece.

“Can I see it?” Charles finds himself asking. He tells himself he’s asking about the black stripe, but deep down he knows the truth; there’s something in Raven’s work that reveals Erik. There’s something intimate and powerful there that he wants to see in this verdant place of shadow and water.

When Erik says nothing, Charles looks up from his chest. Erik’s blue-green eyes are narrow once more and focused directly on Charles. He feels skewered, but he’s nothing if not an excellent actor. “I never saw it finished. You must admit, you were a right bastard to me so even if Raven did send me a picture of it, which she didn’t, I wouldn’t have looked. But it’s important to her and I do like what I saw of it.”

Erik puts down his identical wax bag and leans back from Charles, his gaze never lifting or losing its piercing quality. His hands, long-fingered and artistic, cross over as they descend to the hem of the blue shirt. Charles draws in a quiet breath and Erik grips the shirt and pulls it up and over his body. For a moment the sight reminds him of the pleasure of seeing his ex, Stuart, strip, but the vertical, black stripe blots that idea immediately as the shirt rolls up over it.

Releasing his breath slowly over his bottom lip, Charles takes in the sight of Erik’s chest, but, more importantly for now, the dragon that struggles on one half of it. Erik pulls the shirt off completely, revealing the heart that completes the sleeve on his left arm, too. His arm, from wrist to shoulder, is covered in tattoos, but none of the colors or shapes there are as fascinating as the dragon and heart combination.

It’s definitely about self conflict, he muses, as his eyes track in a loop between the heart’s ventricles and the dragon’s body and heads. Although there’s a sort of harmony between the watercolor look of the color and the graphic rendering of the line work.

It’s a gripping piece despite the cliché and Charles wonders again why it has such an impact on him. It comes to Charles with beams of sunlight falling in bands of varying intensity around them: it’s because Erik rarely reveals himself. He doesn’t reveal himself through anecdotes, not through questions, only in anger. He doesn’t talk about himself or his past, and while he has asked Charles to talk about himself, even punished him when he didn’t, he doesn’t ask out of genuine curiosity, it’s all on Raven’s behalf.

Maybe she hadn’t set out to pass the bet penalty over to Erik, but it works in her favor for it to be in his hands. She wants Erik to be interested in Charles, to get information for her, but Erik never asks those kinds of questions. When he had tried to force information out he only ever used Raven to do so. Charles knows from experience that a person that doesn’t ask the right questions in order to get to know somebody is a person that doesn’t want the same questions asked of themselves. Erik never asks him intimate questions, just various iterations of ‘I need information to design for you’.

“Clever girl,” Charles whispers, because she is and because Erik will obviously attribute the statement to Raven’s skill in their trade.

“She is,” Erik replies. He isn’t looking at the tattoo; his eyes remain on Charles.

The error isn’t obvious, Charles supposes, but as he looks at the dragon with the unicorn horn piercing its eye, it becomes more apparent. Erik can’t design for him the way Raven has designed for Erik, because Erik avoids intimacy. From what he’s seen, Erik’s designs are almost entirely feats of technical brilliance; it’s likely only because he knows Raven that Erik could force any intimacy into his harassing images at all. In fact, Erik probably had no idea what sort of demons he was poking at when he was making those images.

Erik doesn’t truly know him or his weaknesses, but Erik’s are right there, spelled out in the ink Raven placed under his skin. Conflict from within.

“You know,” Charles says, voice still hushed, “I don’t want a tattoo like that.” He points at Erik’s chest and the muscles under Erik’s tattoo twitch. “It’s too personal. You were an idiot to let her do this to you and no amount of cover up or laser will ever blot that out.”

Despite his return to boxing, Charles doesn’t get his arms up in time. Erik’s hands shoot out faster than his expression twists into a snarl. He grips the shirt that’s draped around Charles’ neck and jerks him forward. Charles falls toward him, but rather than steady himself on the tree, he grabs Erik by his shoulders, heedless of his nails sinking into flesh and ink.

“You don’t know me,” Erik snarls, spitting with the ferocity of his anger. “Some shallow bastard that’s never wanted for anything, that thinks his approval is more important than his sister’s happiness?”

“You’re an open book written in crayon,” Charles retorts, heart pumping blood and adrenaline throughout his body. “And you have no idea what Raven needs! You don’t even have the first clue _why_ she’s interested in your sad, little excuse for a subculture.”

“It doesn’t matter why,” Erik spits and twists the shirt to transfer it into a one-handed, white-knuckled grip. “It’s her choice.”

In the periphery of his vision, Charles tracks Erik’s free hand, notes that it’s splayed open and traveling back and away. It doesn’t matter, because Erik has drawn him so close that he’d never be able to get in a punch. So close that his breath, harsh and ragged, is puffing out on Charles’ face. That’s fine, he thinks in growing anger, because he’s comfortable when he gets in close, just inside an opponent’s reach.

“She’s my _sister._ ” Charles’ voice rises with each word. He can feel his fingernails digging in and he doesn’t care. He drags Erik closer; any closer and their noses will bump and their eyes will cross. “The why is _everything_! You have no idea her challenges, her _suffering_!”

Erik’s head shifts back, like nothing so much as a cobra preparing to strike or a man ready to deliver a fantastic head butt. “You think I don’t know her suffering? Other than Hank, who do you think she goes to after you make a mess of her?”

Beyond all logic, Charles pushes forward, denying Erik the leverage he would need to snap his head forward. The shirt around his throat gets tighter, implying that Erik is taking leverage elsewhere.

“God damn it, you said it yourself this isn’t about me!”

Charles can barely see Erik’s lip curl, but he has noticed that Erik’s eyes are dark now; his pupils have dilated wide in what is either anxiety or something much worse. “You’re equivocating and you fucking well know it!”

“You want equivocating?” Charles growls, “I’ll give you your equivocating!”

Charles chooses that which is worse; he shoves forward, creating slack in the shirt around his throat, denying a possible head butt, and slams his mouth over Erik’s.           


	8. Indecent exposure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With much love to Rumcity who gave me a beta read when I just asked her to look the chapter over for me.

_Indecent exposure_

It is only human to get angry when somebody prods an open wound. Raven’s journeyman tattoo is just such a wound and Erik is very human. The anger comes up in a white flash of rage and while there’s a part of him that always glories in the pure, incendiary power of that rage, there’s a force of despair and regret that forces one hand away to seek cool, fresh water. He knows he needs to douse the heat and fury.

They contend with hot words and emotions and Erik brings the fight but leans away from it, too. He wouldn’t be so angry if Charles hadn’t hit the nail on the head. Of all people in the world, Erik knows best the idiocy in getting a tattoo that a person isn’t prepared to carry for the rest of their life. He wouldn’t be so angry if Charles hadn’t been so right. He wouldn’t be so angry if somebody so disdainful of the profession hadn’t pointed out such a simple, fundamental fact. He wouldn’t be as angry if had it been anybody else.

Charles draws him in and Erik struggles to hold back the violence that lurks deeper than his tattoos. He leans away more and more, reaches backwards with one hand and twists Charles’ shirt with the other. The two of them are hissing and spitting like the mortally wounded dragon on his chest. Fear and anger dance a spiral in Erik’s veins.

And then Charles does something unthinkable: he lunges forward. For a moment Erik isn’t there. For a moment Erik is seventeen years old and filled with righteous fury, grappling on the hot concrete at the bottom of the courthouse steps. In the next moment, though, a mouth is on his, teeth are crushing his upper lip against his own upper line of teeth, and a body is colliding with his. Erik is back from New York and too confused to react; instead his body freezes and submits to gravity’s pull.

His arm plunges into chill water first, then his back hits the tree trunk, the back of his head follows with a crack. Charles’ teeth savage Erik’s lip when their faces crack together. Instinct comes back to Erik with the pain. He tries to push Charles off, but one arm is submerged up to his elbow, grasping at current, and the other is pinned between their bodies. Bringing his feet onto the tree trunk for leverage, he bucks his hips up to dislodge Charles.

Bucking his hips is only effective in one thing: introducing him to the hardening length of Charles’ dick. While Erik has thought about Charles’ cock before, Erik can’t reconcile his violence with sex. Erik isn’t opposed to angry sex, but he’s too close to losing his temper: he needs to get Charles away from him before he does something terrible to him.

So he rolls to the side. At least he intends to, but the tree trunk is a limited platform and instead of rolling Charles to the ground, Charles falls over the side and follows Erik’s submerged arm the short distance to the stream. With his hands still digging into Erik’s shoulders and Erik with nothing to grab onto, Charles takes him along. There’s an instant of vertigo and then Charles hits the stream back first. Water rushes over Charles’ stricken face and then Erik goes under, too.

In the shock of the frigid water, Charles releases Erik’s shoulders and kicks away. The current tumbles Erik a meter or so before he gets his feet under him and pushes himself up. The stream is too shallow to present any danger once he rises from it. The water splashes and roils around the tops of his thighs as he straightens up.

Charles is a little further along, but in no danger of the cliff despite it. He stands, eyes wild, lips bruised, and chest heaving. His shirt is nowhere to be seen unless, perhaps, tourists are watching it go from tier to tier. He looks good, Erik admits now that his anger has been washed from him. Right now, Charles looks nothing at all like a professor. His eyes shine from under the dripping mop of his hair, his skin is dappled with freckles and light, and the curves of his muscles are highlighted with the sheen of water.

Inspiration begins to filter in, bringing Erik to the designs he’d drawn for Charles. White knight isn’t entirely wrong, no, there’s something of that in Charles. There’s his willingness to fight what he thinks is a righteous battle, surely, and there’s definitely a huge amount of his character that is defined by his over-protective relationship with Raven. Perhaps he’s more of a rook with his ivory tower.

There’s more beginning to take shape in the back of his mind; the nebulous notion contains sharp points and hard edges. It’s uncomfortable but even if he had pen and paper he doesn’t think he could quite coax the image out of the cloud. It’s enough that he has a beginning, though. Erik doesn’t wait for inspiration, but he doesn’t dismiss it when it comes.

Charles looks good clothed in river water. His shorts cling enticingly to his thighs. Erik’s not sure what kind of sight he presents to Charles, but there’s only one way to find out. He wades toward him a few steps and then waves Charles over with one brief motion of his hand.

It’s harder for Charles to wade forward; he’s much shorter so the current affects him more as he moves against it. His eyes are still bright and, as he comes closer, Erik can see his cheeks are flush with color. There’s no anger in his eyes, so Erik attributes the flush to embarrassment or the desire he had evidenced a moment ago.

“Your lip is bleeding,” Charles says as he draws near. His gaze drops to Erik’s chest, probably following the flow of red down his chin. Charles’ eyes remain there, transfixed.

Once mentioned, Erik tastes the metallic tang of blood. He glances down to see what Charles is looking at and sees nothing more exciting than a few drops of blood dispersing in the water over the two-headed dragon. Erik begins to think Charles has a strange fascination with the imagery despite his earlier disdain.

Charles puts his hands together and uses them as a ladle to catch water from the surface of the stream. He takes a few more slow steps closer, hands dripping water before him, and pours the preponderance over Erik’s chest. “I’m sorry; that was very stupid of me.”

“Which part?” Erik asks as Charles washes the blood from his chest. One of Charles’ warm hands lingers over his heart and Erik’s heart answers by picking up speed. His palm lifts, but his fingertips remain to trace the graphic outline of the tattoo.

“Which part do you think?”

“All of them,” Erik replies. He brings his hands up and pushes Charles’ heavy, wet fringe off his face. His fingers tangle in the wet locks, but aren’t ensnared. When did all this lust come on? Did all the energy from his anger need an outlet?

Charles doesn’t take a turn toward anger, either; he brings both of his hands, sensible workman’s hands, up to wipe blood from Erik’s chin. “I can think of several things even worse.”

“I know,” Erik murmurs as Charles’ fingertips move over his upper lip. He tastes blood once again, but it doesn’t make him angry.

“Shall I show you?”

“Show me.”

Charles slides his hands up and around the back of Erik’s head and pulls him down. It’s a bad idea, but Erik allows it. There’s no denying the animal attraction that surfaced since their first meeting. It has a strength he’s rarely felt before; he assumes it’s fed by their animosity.

Their lips meet, wet with water and traces of blood, and Erik is just as ready as Charles to open his mouth to the kiss. Erik runs his tongue along the upper edge of Charles’ lip and then their heads tilt, slanting to take the kiss deeper. With easier access granted, he slides his tongue firmly across Charles’. Charles responds with a feint, swirling his tongue over Erik’s like a fencer’s circle parry.

Erik places his hands on Charles’ hips and pulls his body flush against his own. He feels Charles shudder with the contact, a seismic event confined beneath freckled skin. The brief quake does nothing to rein Charles in; he only pulls back in order to suck briefly on Erik’s uninjured bottom lip. When Erik opens his mouth to retaliate, Charles releases Erik’s lip lingeringly and slides his tongue against Erik’s again.

Erik has never been one for kissing. For the most part he’s left that behind him in what feels like a former life. But Charles is good at it, so skilled that he thinks nothing of letting their mouths linger together.

Somewhat overwhelmed with the effect Charles’ is having on him, Erik uses his grip on Charles hips to push him back. It’s easy to do with the water pushing against Charles. His breathing is reduced to breathy pants and his heart is racing as he looks down into Charles’ flushed face. Resting easily in Charles’ expression is a smile that is equal parts confidence and cheek. Kissing like he does, Erik can’t begrudge him a little arrogance.

“It’s good, isn’t it?” Charles murmurs. His voice is low and barely carries the short distance over the sound of the water.

Erik scoffs softly and rolls his eyes.

“How long do you think we’ll have this privacy?” Charles asks, pushing forward again. He brings his hands down from Erik’s head in a sweeping caress and hooks his thumbs into the loops of Erik’s shorts. He pulls Erik’s hips back against him and Erik can feel the hard line of Charles’ cock against his upper thigh and hip.

The switch from fight to a possible fuck fails to make a normal impression on Erik and he doesn’t miss the strangeness in that, but he forges ahead regardless. “There’s a guy that does laps up and down the path, but he’s never come up here. I’d say we have at least half an hour before he gets to the top of the switchbacks. Maybe an hour before any tourists get close.”

Charles releases a breath that’s half laughter. Keeping his fingers threaded through Erik’s belt loops, Charles looks slowly around the shaded area. “If there’s something we can use as lubrication in your backpack, maybe you should fuck me in this beautiful place.”

For a moment Erik’s thought process stutters and nearly dies. When it resumes functioning Erik’s mind immediately casts itself to the travel-sized 50 SPF he keeps on hand in case he exposes his tattoos to sunlight. It has a shea butter base that would probably work, but Erik refuses to go bareback with anyone. “I’ve got something, but I don’t have any condoms so nobody’s fucking anybody.”

Charles gives another pull on the belt loops. His smile is a mischievous grin; Erik can’t tell if Charles is serious or not when he says, “Are you sure? I’m clean. Are you?”

It’s tempting. It’s even more tempting looking down at Charles’ pink cheeks and swollen lips. He can feel Charles’ dick against him and his own strangling in his briefs. “I’m clean, but I don’t go bareback. We can jack each other off or one of us can fuck the other’s thighs.”

“Terrible options,” Charles chuckles, which does nothing to assuage Erik’s confusion. Charles releases one of the loops and slips his hand between them.

Erik takes a deep breath of air laden with the smell of Douglas Pine as Charles palms his trapped cock. Not even a hint of embarrassment appears on his face despite the bold move. Erik’s blood heads south more rapidly than before.

“Because I’m willing to bet you won the genetic lottery with this cock.”

Erik exhales in lust-based amusement even though he’s heard the joke before. He’d like nothing more than to have Charles readjust his dick so it’s more comfortable; maybe even pull it out into the open air. Perhaps they could engage in some hot mutual masturbation right there in the cold water. His mouth opens to make the suggestion, but before issuing sound, Erik recalls where he heard the genetic lottery joke before.

It was Raven. Raven, who rode him like a champ one Pesach when they’d both been drunk, miserable, and lonely. Raven, who he’d basically spanked with his hips while she was bent over his kitchen bench. Raven, Erik’s apprentice and Charles’ sister.

Erik releases Charles’ hips and knocks Charles’ hand off his rapidly softening cock. He pries Charles’ other hand from his belt loop while Charles stares in shock. Erik knows he should say something to explain his actions and the change in mood, but articulating himself is something he’s never good at. He can speak eloquently and with devastating consequences on many subjects, he’s a quick study and a quicker wit, but there’s no easy way to tell a man you’ve had sex with his sister.

For his part, Charles looks bewildered. Erik would have enjoyed seeing that expression on his face under any other circumstances. Seeing it now just makes things worse. “Wait, what just happened? Am I being too pushy? Part of that was just play.”

At a loss for words, Erik turns from Charles to splash frigid water on his face in an attempt to clear his head and cool down his agitation. Didn’t Raven say she had to tell Hank they’d had sex? How did she go about that? Isn’t sex with Raven one of the reasons Charles doesn’t like Hank? It’s a shit reason, Erik decides. He might feel the same way if it was Kitty, but not Raven.

He feels Charles’ hands come to rest hot on his back. “Are you alright, Erik?”

No, he’s not alright; he hasn’t gotten laid in months and the first person to get him going in all that time is the worst possible candidate. Erik straightens up and faces Charles properly. He brings his arms up and loose just in case Charles decides to unleash his inner Amir Khan. “Charles,” he sighs in exasperation and simply puts it to him straight. “I fucked your sister.”

The bewilderment on Charles’ face had faded to concern but immediately contorts into outraged shock. “You did _what?_ ”

“A few years ago we were both drunk,” Erik explains. “It was Pesach so I… It was Passover and it was a bad idea. It only happened the one time and we both agreed it would never happen again.”

As Erik expected, Charles’ widens his stance, both hands come up but they’re not clenched into fists yet. His face is growing red now, but this time lust has nothing to do with it, per se. “You fucked my sister while she was _drunk_?”

“She was far less drunk than I was,” Erik says, because he doesn’t want to say that Raven jumped him in his kitchen. “Why don’t you get her side of the story? I only brought it up because I don’t think you’d want to have any form of sex without knowing about it.”

“I don’t want to have any form of sex _with_ knowing it,” Charles shoots back. “What was she thinking having a one-night stand with her employer?”

“I don’t know,” Erik shoots back and jerks a thumb at the fallen tree, “what were you thinking when you attacked me over there? It’s okay for you but not for her?”

“We don’t have a professional relationship!” Charles says, voice taking on force and volume in his spirited defense. “All we are to each other is the fulfillment of a bet.”

The comment stings but Erik’s caught something in it that rings true with the notion he’s been feeling in the back of his mind. “So you only fuck people you don’t want to get involved with? Is that it? Raven’s not allowed to have an emotional attachment to people she has sex with?”

“No,” Charles says. The solid boxing stance falters as he raises his hands and pushes his fingers into his hair. “Yes.” His bright eyes dart left and right as he appears to regroup his thoughts or search for new ones. “She’s my sister! I have to protect her. If you had a sister you’d understand.”

“You’ve told me that before.” Erik feels strangely calm, detached from his anger. He’s not afraid of hurting Charles, not physically, not now. “When I made those drawings I was illustrating what I thought the problem was. I thought you were enslaving Raven to your expectations, but maybe I was wrong. Maybe you aren’t protecting her so much as you’re trying to keep her to yourself.”

“No,” Charles retorts, “we aren’t going to talk about this again; it’s like a broken record.”

“Why me?” Erik presses. “I’m not going to deny that I’m attracted to you, but if you hate tattoos and how I enable Raven, why would you want to fuck me?”

“Because you’re nothing to me,” Charles repeats, dropping his hands from his head. He looks up and focuses on Erik’s face. “You’re not anything to yourself. Do you even look at yourself? You have a huge back and red X crossing out most of your body. It’s like you’re trying to blot yourself out.”

If Erik hadn’t heard the exact same theory from his court-appointed psychiatrist he’d laugh. He ignores the jab and focuses on the first part of what Charles said. “You can fuck me because I’m nothing to you? So you _do_ only fuck people you don’t want to get involved with. If that’s the case, forget about me: Raven isn’t just my employee, she’s my closest friend. As you should’ve been able to figure out, Professor Xavier, you and I are involved through her."

* * *

 

If Charles was aware of his surroundings at all, he would take pleasure in the appreciative looks his bare chest has been garnering from some of the tourists on his way down the switchbacks. However, he barely even notices the heat of the sun burning the dampness from his dark hair. His hindbrain’s attention is on taking him down the cliff which, like when he runs, is a sort of physical white noise for his mind to focus past.

In the end, neither of them had found their shirts; Erik said they were likely in the river unless a tourist fished them out from the bottom pool. Charles has yet to say a word since they pulled themselves out of the water. In angry silence he ate half the trail mix Erik had left, because he wasn’t going to attempt going down the cliff without eating _something_. The other bag of trail mix had likely gone into the water.

Luckily Erik’s backpack hadn’t been claimed by the stream. Charles treks down the path in squelching shoes and damp shorts, carrying Raven’s water bottle in one hand. It was fortunate Erik insisted they leave their phones in the truck or he’d be in an even worse mood. Charles decides that he won’t be taking a ride from Erik; as soon as he has his phone he’ll call a cab. It should take thirty minutes for the cab to get there, but that will be thirty minutes he won’t have to spend trapped with Erik in the truck’s limited space.

The traction is better as he follows the path; his feet hurt but it is because his feet are painfully wrinkled within the shoes. More white noise for his mind to work behind. But all the physically provided white noise in the world can’t keep him focused on anything but the last clash between Erik and him.

Because Erik, who knows nothing of Charles’ background beyond the bare facts and timeline Raven has given him for tattoo conceptualizing, has echoed Raven. Charles doesn’t get involved with people he connects with emotionally. In fact, if he thinks about it more in that light, he sees he retreats from the lovers that want more than sex. Stuart is a perfect example of an infatuation gone stale the moment the physical drifted into the personal.

For a moment he wonders if Raven had told Erik about Charles’ previous relationships in her quest to set them up, but he rejects the notion before it can fully form. Raven is just as sly and manipulative as he is, but she would never betray a trust like that. Their bonds were forged in a maelstrom of abuse and had weathered countless upheavals. Manipulation isn’t out of the question, using people isn’t, either; betrayal of trust is. That makes Erik’s observation all the more noteworthy.

Perhaps Erik is sharper than Charles had given him credit for. Erik is more than an extension of his sordid art form. Maybe Charles’ had been wrong to see a lack of capability of intimacy in Erik’s tattoo and had read himself into the tattoo instead. Isn’t that how interpreting art works?

As for Erik having sex with Raven, Charles doesn’t want to think about that. It will devolve into violent madness if he examines it for too long. He knows he’s wrong to be annoyed with Hank’s relationship with his sister, but Hank is at least so harmless that Charles sees Raven as the hunter rather than the prey. Charles continues to feel protective of Raven when it comes to Hank, but Erik? Erik is a brooding man with a violent temper.

No, thinking about Raven and Erik is madness. Thinking about Erik and sex was madness. Suddenly wondering what Erik’s face might look like in orgasm is madness, too.

Charles forces his thoughts forward, beyond the curtain of physical activity and listens to his surroundings. The roar of the waterfall is close enough that it drowns out most birdsong, but not his footsteps. Erik’s footfalls, however, aren’t audible over the roar.

Charles stops under the pretense of drinking the last of his water. Erik had been bringing up the rear, silently letting Charles set the pace. Fueled by anger and the calories packed in the trail mix, Charles had made excellent time and hadn’t stopped for rest or water.

A few moments pass before Charles allows himself to glance up the steep incline to see where Erik is. He isn’t far away; only a few switchbacks up taking the ramps with a slow, easy gait. Charles’ mood turns black once more: Erik is a waste of a perfectly beautiful specimen of man. He cuts a remarkable sight with the big, black stripe down the right side of his body and the tattoos on his left arm; they act like a sort of camouflage in the woods. That goes well with the theme of crossing himself out, Charles muses.

He swallows down the last of his water and turns back to the trail.

By Charles’ watch it is almost 10am by the time they get to the bridge again; it looks different with the sun beginning to shine down on it. Rainbows refract everywhere through the waterfall’s prodigious spray. Despite his disquiet and the now plenteous sight-seers taking pictures on the bridge, the beauty still affects him. With no small amount of satisfaction, he notices a teenager taking covert pains to include him in her picture of the waterfall.

He looks through the sparkling mist and rainbows over both sides of Benson Bridge for his shirt, but there’s no trace of either one. His shorts are almost completely dry, a small blessing, but his shoes are damp and annoying. Dry shorts should make for a less pissed-off cabbie, he thinks.

Interestingly, when Erik hits the bridge, Charles sees the tourists polarize into the conservative and liberal-minded. A few parents call their children over to them as Erik nears them on his way across the bridge. Charles hears one tourist criticize the strangeness of Erik’s black and red stripes as ‘something straight out of that show, _Portlandia_.’

Charles isn’t moved by the criticism or the people that immediately think Erik poses a threat to children until he thinks of how they perceive Raven. That spurs him to fall into step at Erik’s side, but doesn’t prompt him to say anything. Erik glances at him and then forward again.

They pass concession stands on the way out offering drinks and ice cream. Charles would stop for bottled water, but his wallet is with their phones; locked in the truck’s glove box. The sun is bright, beating down, but far from oppressive in the valley’s ocean-scented breeze. Charles is glad Erik left the truck’s windows cracked when they arrive by its side. Erik withdraws the keys from his backpack and unlocks the doors.

Charles presents his hand to Erik once the doors are open and hot air is fleeing from the small confines of the truck’s cab. “I need my phone.”

Erik hands him the keys without question or comment, his expression seemingly carved from stone.

Charles opens the glove box and retrieves his phone and wallet. “You can go without me, I’m ordering a taxi.”

Erik stares at him and explains slowly, “We’re going to the same place.”

Charles snorts with derision. “I need time away from you.”

“Fine,” Erik shrugs, “but I’m waiting here with you until the taxi shows which will be the exact amount of time it would take for me to drive you back.”

A spike of irritation punches straight through the calm he’d attained on the bridge. “That totally defeats the purpose of calling a cab.”

“How about this,” Erik says, his voice so firm that at first Charles doesn’t recognize he’s being given an option. “I’ll let you drive.”

Charles’ lifts one eyebrow in appraisal; Erik’s a better negotiator than Charles had suspected. By letting Charles drive, Erik would cede a degree of control into Charles’ hands and that, more than isolation, is what he needs right now.

Charles bobs his head in a single nod and slips his phone back into the glove box. “I’ll agree to that.”

They trade places. Erik slips into the passenger-side seat and Charles takes the driver’s. Before he can buckle his seatbelt, Erik hands Charles the raincoat he’d brought along. Charles shakes his head even though he has a bit of flab showing while he’s seated, he doesn’t feel ashamed of his body nor does he feel cold. “If it gets cold.”

Erik shrugs and drapes the coat over his tattooed shoulders instead before buckling in. The move strikes Charles as uncharacteristic; Erik seems too proud to wear clothes that belong to people he disagrees with.

Charles hasn’t driven much the last year or two, but it isn’t a skill one easily forgets; he puts the truck in gear and gets them underway. On the highway, Erik retrieves his phone from the glove box and sinks into an even more uncharacteristic slouch as he types a message with his thumbs. It dawns on Charles then what Erik is doing: he’s covering his tattoos. Perhaps, as Raven had said, Erik is frequently pulled over when his tattoos show. The heaviest coverage is on his left arm, the arm that shows through the driver’s side window.

“I was slow to realize that I shouldn’t have accepted Raven’s job for you.”

Keeping the sudden surprise off his face is almost more than Charles can pull off. “Oh? Then why did you?”

“For the reason I gave you when we met,” Erik replies. “I didn’t want Raven to tattoo you because of a bet. She shouldn’t have let me take the job, but I doubt she was thinking very clearly. None of us were.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Charles asks. “Are you dropping the tattoo? I’d be happy to hear it if you are.”

“No,” Erik replies. He puts down his phone and looks up through the windshield. “I said I would do it and I will, but it was a mistake. For one, your bet with Raven wasn’t my problem, but I made it mine by getting involved. For another, this isn’t how I work. This isn’t how any artist in the business works. Nobody designs blind the way I’m doing for you. Only scratchers tattoo people that don’t want to be tattooed.”

“You said you’d taken bets before,” Charles says and this time it comes out as a scoff. “What was it you said? That you wanted to spare Raven that stigma?”

“I don’t do that anymore,” Erik replies and his tone of voice betrays the tiniest bit of his prior anger. Charles knows immediately that Erik is showing more about himself than he’d like. As he suspected, Erik never asks Charles about his past because Erik doesn’t want the questions turned back on him. Now he knows, also, that Erik obviously used to have much looser ethics about his tattooing.

“You don’t do that anymore,” Charles parrots. “So getting a tattoo for a bet is a bad thing. That’s something both you and Raven agree on?”

“More or less,” Erik says. This time there’s no anger, but there’s no sympathy, either. “If Raven’s going to make a stupid bet like that, she should be the one to suffer the consequences, not me. I was wrong to step in.”

“But you’re still going to do it,” Charles scoffs. “Why even bring it up? I’m not going to make it any easier on you; I don’t want a tattoo.” Charles takes extra care not to add the part that had set Erik off last time; that he didn’t want a tattoo as personal as the one Raven had given him. “Doesn’t that make you, what, a scratcher?”

“When I decide to do something, I do it.” Out of the corner of his eye, Charles sees Erik pull the lapels of the raincoat closer together.

“Even if it’s wrong?” Charles asks.

“Wrong and mistake aren’t necessarily synonyms.”

Charles ignores Erik’s evasion and repeats himself. “Even if it’s wrong?”

Erik doesn’t respond which is, of course, a reply all its own.

They sit in relative silence all the way back into the city. Conversation only resumes as Erik directs Charles to Raven’s loft. The sun is higher in the sky and clouds are few and far between. Even though many of the neighborhood’s buildings are painted and planters full of perennials dot the area, it still looks and smells industrial.

Charles parks the truck and trades Erik the keys for his raincoat. They go up the concrete steps out front and into the musty-smelling building together. They keep the quiet from before, but the wooden stairs to the second floor don’t. While the stairs creak Charles supposes Erik is just as lost in his thoughts as he is; he tells himself he really doesn’t care.

The door to the loft is open a crack in invitation, but Charles would have let himself right in despite the invitation the door presents. Inside the dim space they find Raven at work; she’s dragged the pedestals out of her bedroom along with some of the picture frames. She has a shirtless Janos (who is wearing the leather gloves from the kitchen) sitting on one of the pedestals while holding a frame with heavy, gold molding. All the frames in the common area have had their glass removed. Charles grimaces and drops his raincoat on the dining table; the glass is probably all in her room.

Raven paces between the gathered props, her expression serious with concentration. Janos has a mildly bored look on his face that Charles barely notices; his eyes skip to Janos’ shoulders and slide down his chest. Janos is handsome and smooth, his chest is nicely muscled and probably waxed, but he isn’t wiry and defined like Erik. Charles hates himself a little for the kneejerk comparison.

“Oh!” Raven exclaims as they walk in. “Oh, wow, Erik, too? Are all the hot guys topless today? Did I send that memo to contact list instead of just Janos?”

“Raven,” Charles says, a brittle smile holding his lips though his teeth remain grit. Raven hates it when he makes this face; it always reminds her of Sharon. He walks straight to her, closes his fingers around her wrist, and tugs her toward her bedroom. “Give Janos a break and come have a talk with me.”

With a twist of her wrist, she easily pulls free of his grip. “You’re wearing the bitch face, Charles. Do we need to go out to the fire escape for some privacy or do you want to air your dirty laundry instead of washing it?”

“Considering the dirty laundry is yours, I’ll let you decide,” Charles replies in what he hopes is a mild voice. It’s always harder to hide himself when it comes to Raven; other than Erik, nobody else knows how to push his buttons.

Across from them Janos, slips quickly from the pedestal and sets the old frame against it. He glances at Erik with a questioning look as he tugs off the gloves. Erik meets Janos’ gaze and shakes his head briefly. An understanding seems to pass between the two; Janos leaves the gloves on the gold frame and Erik tosses his truck’s keys to Raven. “I’ll see myself out.”

“I thought we were getting pho!” Raven snatches the keys from their arc. “Hey! Where’s your shirt?”

Erik doesn’t respond at first. He lifts his raincoat and helmet from his bicycle and then takes the Felt down from the wall. Janos opens the apartment door for him. It isn’t until Erik is on his way out that he replies, “I’m going to the shop; if you want to get lunch you know where to find me.”

Janos shuts the door after Erik and beats a retreat to the loft’s kitschy bar where, in days past, the loft residents had run a bar while hosting raves. Charles forgets to watch Janos’ ass as he goes. According to Raven the artist collective above them sometimes hosts bicycle races, but most of the truly outrageous behavior in the building has toned down with the gentrification of the area. There’s still an underground bar in the area that hosts a halfpipe and roller racing. Nobody in the loft knew about the bar until one of Erik’s current customers, the bar’s roller racing champion, invited Raven to competitions. Charles wonders how Erik and his Felt would fair on the rollers.

“What’s with him?” Raven asks under her breath, eyes fixed on the loft’s difficult door. She releases a breathy sigh and runs her hands over her hair. She pulls at the sides of the ponytail to tighten it then gestures to the window that leads to the fire escape. “Okay, Charles. Now that Erik’s gone and Janos is off to make himself a mimosa and message his evil Russian boyfriend, let’s go have our spat.”

“I think we can keep it civil.” He doubts that, but he knows he’s in the right this time. It’s all a matter of how Raven reacts to what he has to say.

The window is already open partway, but Raven hefts it up further to make it easier to climb out. The fire escape is awash in late morning sunlight that makes its rusted and flaking paint look all the more decrepit. Raven and her hipster friends love the decay as do many of the photographers that Janos works with. Charles has made noises about appreciating the fire escape as a thing depicting the passage of time, but he doesn’t really like it. Some things appreciated with time, but a fire escape on a building full of people isn’t one of them. It just looks unsafe and shabby.

Even though his feet still hurt, he keeps his damp shoes on as he follows Raven out into the sunlight. He wrinkles his nose as he clambers through the window and out on the metal grate platform. Not only is the place decrepit, but today it smells faintly of sulfur.

Raven crosses her arms and leans against the rail that anchors to the brick wall. “Where’s Erik’s shirt?”

“In the river,” Charles shrugs. He’s not sure why she’s so interested, unless the screen print was done by their friend, Darwin. But he doesn’t even remember her coming out to see them off so it couldn’t be the shirt itself.

Raven’s eyebrows shoot toward her hairline. “How did that happen?”

“It happened when the two of us fell in the water,” Charles deadpans.

Raven’s eyebrows can’t go any higher; they seem to tremble with the effort. “In the river? What were you guys doing over there?”

Charles shakes his head. He doesn’t want to explain this, but he decides it might make a good segue into the subject he wants to address. “It happened at the top of Multnomah Falls where we attempted to hook up, just like you planned.”

In retrospect, Charles wishes he’d prepared his phone to take a picture, because Raven’s expression has gone from confused to priceless. She sucks in a gasp and her hands fly to her mouth. “No way! I can’t believe this! I knew he had thing for you, and I was hoping he’d get through, but that was faster than I expected!”

Her confession makes the situation bizarre; Raven isn’t denying her involvement and she seems to be saying that she did it for Erik’s benefit. Inwardly, Charles’ emotions whirl in a strangely excited confusion, but he does his best to rein them in and proceed rationally.

“So you admit you set this up,” Charles accuses. “You set us up because you wanted us to get together. Or are you saying you tried to pimp me out to your employer?”

“I wasn’t pimping you out, Charles; I was totally trying to set you up,” Raven scoffs. She lowers her hands from her mouth, down to grip the worn rail she’s leaning against. “Erik legitimately likes you. He’s just so emotionally clueless that fucking with you is the only way he knows how to get your attention. I thought you’d figure it out.”

He knows, he knows without a doubt, that Erik is attracted to him and the thought brings him a sort of trembling pleasure that Charles can’t quickly sort through. But that really isn’t what he’s here for.

“I thought our days of using people were left back in Westchester,” Charles says. “Erik’s attraction is convenient for you, isn’t it? After all, you run his Facebook; you would know all about him before I blocked him. I knew what you were doing, and I was going to have sex with him anyway, but he had the decency to admit he had sex with you first.”

Charles is shocked to find Raven smirk humorlessly at the accusation. Her brow furrows for a moment and smoothes out under what Charles assumes is a feat of self-control. “Wow, Charles, where do I start? With the paranoia which I’ve never been targeted with? Or the double-standard that’s kind of old hat?”

A breath of derision puffs from Charles’ mouth. “Redefine it as you will, it doesn’t change anything. That night at the Rose Garden was so lovely, Raven; it was the best moment we’ve had together in years. And the moment I opened up to you, you decided to intervene with a half-assed plan to set me up with your employer, who you slept with, in order to watch another of my affairs crash and burn.”

“I told him to tell you, Charles.” Raven’s arms come up from the rail to cross under her breasts, but she uncrosses them a moment later and grips the rail again. “Back when I suspected he liked you, I told Erik he’d have to tell you we had sex. Well, I didn’t mention you by name and I don’t think he ever realized it was you I was talking about.”

“What?” It doesn’t make sense. Raven has always been smart and sly in a way that speaks of all the manipulating they had learned growing up in a severely dysfunctional home. If she’s telling the truth, rather than bullshitting like the Xavier she is, the picture doesn’t add up. “Why would you do that?”

“Because, you should know,” Raven continues, releasing the rail with one hand and snagging the waistband of his shorts with her index finger, “but it was Erik’s secret to give you. Even though I knew you’d pissed about it, I never had anything to lose. I don’t care if you know I jumped him, because you may be the most patronizing asshole brother ever, but you will always love me. I won’t lose you.”

Her eyes are serious, the little furrow back in her brow, but Raven is nowhere near crying. Instead, it’s Charles who is feeling a little overwhelmed at her trust and her apparent sincerity.

“Damn it,” he breathes and grasps the hand at his waist. He uses it to pull at Raven and she goes, wrapping her other hand around his shoulders. “Damn it, Raven; you confuse me so much. You planned this; you’re using him and you’re manipulating me.”

“Charles,” Raven says, leaning back to look him in the eyes. “You can be paranoid all you like, but why would I risk fucking up a good thing?”

“Because you’ve done your journeyman tattoo,” Charles replies, but he knows he’s grasping at anything to avoid the conclusion. “You can start your own business. Better yet, you can leave this blood trade and focus on your paintings again. Ororo Munroe is going to your show; if you impress her you could get proper shows like you had in New York.”

“No.” She leans up on her toes and presses her forehead to his. “Charles, think it over. You know, you can have sex with him or not, I don’t really care; Erik makes a good friend if you get past all his baggage. And if he was willing to tell you that we fucked, then he’s done something he never does for anyone; he told you about his past.”

* * *

 

The ride from Raven’s apartment to Quicksilver takes longer than Erik wants it to. Normally he likes to pedal from the shop or from his loft to Raven’s, but with no shirt and the sun beating down on swaths ink he feels exposed and concerned about fading. Some people believe he keeps his tattoos covered because the sun’s ultraviolet rays are damaging to the ink beneath his skin. It’s sound reasoning, but they’re only partially right.

He tops his carbon fiber Felt out in both gears as often as he can in his race to get to the shop faster than ever before. By the time he gets there, his thighs are burning and he’s covered in sweat once more. His hair is matted to his scalp under his helmet and a steady trickle of sweat from beneath his backpack has soaked the back of his shorts. Going up the stairs to the shop feels disgusting; he has a terrible case of swamp balls thanks to all the perspiration.

He takes his shoes off at the door, drops the backpack on the vase with Raven’s MoMA umbrella, and hangs his helmet on the coat rack. He goes straight into the shower with the rest of his clothes on; two birds with one stone, he thinks. The soap he keeps in the shower isn’t meant for clothes, but he washes his body and his clothes in one go anyway. It’s partly to rid everything of salt and partly to keep his mind off the idiocy that was his and Charles’ behavior at Multnomah Falls. There’s already one dent in the shower, he doesn’t want to start a collection of them.

He didn’t have the usual struggle with his anger on the drive to Raven’s building, but then he had distracted himself by checking his email and reading and rereading messages he’d already replied to. Now that he has less to distract himself, he’s not feeling as calm as he had at the Falls. Now he’s alone he starts to think about how close he was to testing out his theory about Charles’ thighs and how that’s never going to happen.

It’s for the best because fucking somebody he’s going to tattoo isn’t the brightest notion that’s ever sparked through his brain. Fucking Raven’s brother would be even worse. Stupid. Everything to do with Charles is confusing and stupid.

When he turns the shower off he rubs his face so hard with a towel that it comes away dotted with red. His lip is bleeding again.

Annoyed, Erik slings the towel the short distance into a shower corner and sucks hard on his upper lip. He tears a strip off the roll of toilet paper and looks in the mirror above the small wash basin. Avoiding the sight of his own face, he focuses tightly on his mouth. Erik releases his lip and carefully presses at it with the paper until the bleeding slows. Then, just as he would treat a shaving knick, he tears a corner off the toilet paper and sticks it to the cut.

Cut dealt with for the moment, Erik retrieves the towel he threw and wraps the clothes he washed within it. He and the clothes drip on the small bathroom floor, but he’d planned to wash the floor soon anyway. Though before that he thinks meditating is the best thing he could do. His annoyance with himself and with Charles is manageable; he thanks all the physical activity and the Falls for that.

He drops the clothes into the store room washing machine and pulls on a pair of boxer briefs. Since it’s a Monday and Raven had kept the day open for his outing with Charles and lunch with the two of them, he has no reason to put more clothes on. He doubts Raven will be over anytime soon, so he pads through the gallery space, knocks the noren out of the way, and steps into their workspace.

He rifles through his incense collection, avoiding the ‘wild-crafted’ Douglas Fir incense that he buys specifically because it reminds him of Multnomah. Instead he goes for one of the paper boxes of Indian cones he hasn’t burned in ages. There’s only a few green cones of Lotus left but there will never be a shortage of New Age shops in Portland that sell it. He grabs two and shakes them in his palm like he’s about to cast dice.

The back room is dark and cool; the indirect light from the alley-side window always puts him at ease as does the worn weave of the Persian rug that doesn’t quite fill the small room. He lights the cones on the dish in the window sill and sits down cross legged in the center of the old carpet. Usually the simple act of walking into the backroom helps his emotional state. By the time he sits down and runs his hands over the carpet’s weave, his heart beat starts to ramp down.

Erik’s eyes tighten shut; he focuses on the fibers his fingertips are trailing across. He’s half-convinced he could select this carpet from a carpet repair shop by feel alone. His concentration narrows down to breathing slowly and calmly in through his nose and out through his mouth.

There’s more than one kind of meditation in Erik’s slowly-built repertoire. He’d started with simply pouring himself out of his own mind as much as he possibly could and thinking of nothing. His counselor, despite her penchant to be a cold-hearted bitch, had taught him breathing techniques and meditation focused on addressing the source of things that made him angry. She had told him the greatest source of his anger could be resolved, but she doubted he would ever let it go. She was right; he’s never so much as tried.

As is normal, Erik loses track of time as he meditates and, as is also routine, he lays back afterward, legs still crossed, arms stretched out above him until his hands touch the cold hardwood floor, and naps. Erik hardly ever dreams, but when he does he has nightmares that he wakes from with too much energy in his fists and burning knuckles.

An unknown amount of time later, he hears the front door open while he’s dozing. Eyes shut, he sucks a deep breath into his chest and shouts, “We’re closed!”

“Duh, it’s Monday,” comes Kitty’s voice. “I have a delivery for you from Triple Cha. I have a bet running with Alex that it’s ladies’ lingerie for men, so can I open it?”

Sighing, Erik rolls up to his feet and stands. He glances down at his state of undress and frowns. “Kitty, I’m in my briefs. Are you cool with that?”

There’s a long pause and whispers before Kitty responds. “Yeah, and just so you know, Xi’an’s here with me and she’s okay with it, too. Are your briefs lacy?”

Xi’an? That’s unexpected, but maybe seeing him in his underwear will make him look a little less intimidating. Or, with all his tattoos, maybe a little more? Except for Raven’s piece, none of his tattoos are particularly violent; many are abstract and a few are beautiful. Then again, he’s giving Xi’an a warship. He scrapes the bit of paper from his upper lip with his bottom row of teeth and swallows it.

The two girls are on the couch in the gallery when he walks out into the work area. He runs his hands through his hair to sift it into a sort of order; he’s glad it hasn’t dried completely and thus saved him a strange case of bed head. Lifting the noren out of the way, and with a mind to obscure the obvious outline of his junk, he walks immediately to the left and sits down in the rail tie wall’s window.

Kitty schools her face into a bland expression. “Not wearing the crotchless ones today, I see.”

Erik rolls his eyes and says nothing that he thinks might encourage her to harass him; Raven’s influence on Kitty is bad enough. He glances at Xi’an and nods a greeting. “I thought you were the one that does delivery, not Kitty.”

The girl snorts lightly and shoves Kitty with her shoulder. “Mondays are usually crazy, but it’s my birthday and Kitty’s on summer break, so we’re hanging out.”

“Happy Birthday,” Erik says and then, since it’s Kitty sitting there with her, “Mazl-tov.”

“Oh,” Xi’an comments, her dark eyes widening a bit. “I thought you were German.”

“I have American citizenship,” Erik says, and because everyone knows he adds, “I’m a German-born Jew.”

“He speaks a different Jewish language than you hear at my house,” Kitty says and then goes on to explain that her family comes from the Mediterranean island of Rhodes.

While she explains, Erik finally understands why Xi’an chose Quicksilver, if not him, to do her tattoo. The two are obviously friends, especially if Xi’an’s been to Kitty’s house, and most of the staff at Morpho send their friends to Quicksilver. Most of them can’t afford Erik and go with Raven instead, but Xi’an’s been dedicated to meeting his price despite his high rates.

Erik leans back through the opening in the wall and pulls up one of his portfolio cases from beside the desk. He rifles through until he finds the finished gunboat drawing: Xi’an had opted to not buy the original in order to save money.

“Kitty,” Erik says, not really caring that he’s interrupting her spontaneous lecture, “give me the package from Triple Cha.”

“Sure,” she says and jumps up from the couch. She has the shop’s new shopping bag; pink and purple striped paper with black lace handles. The shop logo is emblazoned in gold on both sides. It’s gaudy, but typical.

He takes the bag and hands her the drawing. “Give this to Xi’an; her birthday present.”

Kitty pauses with her back to Xi’an and nods. She silently mouths, This is perfect. Thank you.

Within the bag, wrapped in a layer of gold tissue paper and smelling of cologne is the black shirt he had made for Raven’s show. He pulls it out and lays it across his thighs and then checks inside the tissue for the other piece.

“Thank you, Mr. Lehnsherr,” Xi’an says from the couch. “I really did want it.”

Erik glances at her as he pulls out the last piece of black fabric. “You can call me Erik. When I hear ‘Mr. Lehnsherr’ it sounds like trouble. Kitty can probably scrounge some cardboard tubes at Morpho so you can get it home safely.”

“Do we get to see your lingerie?” Kitty asks. “It doesn’t look very lacy.”

It isn’t lacy at all. In fact, the shirt is as non-decorative as it could be, constructed with a stretchy, matte material that will cling to his skin. “Only because you can’t come to Raven’s show.”

“The sooner I turn twenty-one the better,” Kitty sighs. “I don’t even like beer.”

“Eighteen might have been okay,” Erik replies. He picks the shirt up again and shakes it out; to his disgust it smells of the lavender and pepper cologne from the bag. “It’s not the alcohol we’re worried about.”

After studying the shirt to make sure he has the right side up, he pulls it over his head. It’s a tight fit, but it’s supposed to be. It’s difficult to get his arm down the single sleeve, but once he has he tugs the hem down and smoothes it over his hips. It takes a little more adjustment to lay the material properly over his chest so that the dragon tattoo is fully revealed. The final piece is a half-sleeve that he pulls up to his elbow. Considering the changes Raven’s made for the show, he’s not sure if the shirt is a good idea or not. The changes she’s made have also meant they won’t be attracting attention with another roof-top party. It’s a shame; the roof has an excellent view of the city at night.

“Nudity or something?” Kitty says while Erik pulls the half-sleeve up. “I think the boxer briefs are more exciting than the shirt.”

“Shut up, Kitty,” Erik and Xi’an say simultaneously. Erik smirks at the unintentional coordination and Xi’an gives him a rare smile.

“You owe me a Coke,” Xi’an murmurs then drops her gaze down to the picture she’s carefully rolled up and is now trying to roll tighter.

“I don’t have soda, but there’s juice in the fridge,” Erik replies. “Or Kitty can owe you coffee.”

Kitty jumps off the couch to take Xi’an to the half fridge opposite the bathroom for juice. Erik slides out of the wooden alcove and follows, but where they turn, he walks past to retrieve his phone from his backpack.

He has a couple missed calls and a text from Raven. He’s not sure he wants to deal with anything Raven has to say, but he checks the message anyway.

Since Charles got here we’ve missed drinks twice and now lunch. Dinner tonight or else. Charles says he’ll buy dinner to thank you for the tour of the falls.

Erik sighs and shakes his head. He does, but he doesn’t, want to see Charles again so soon. He’s far too confused with a body that says yes and a head that says no. He replies, Not tonight. Saturday night.

Before he can even set his phone down, a reply buzzes in his hand. After work on Wednesday.

Erik stares at the screen, thinking, and then punches in his response. Saturday morning and if he causes problems he won’t be coming over the following Wednesday to help set up for your show.

Raven’s reply is just as quick. That’s bullshit, Erik! You can’t forbid MY brother from helping with MY show.

Erik replies with quick thumbs and not a second of hesitation. I pay Quicksilver’s rent, not you.

He passes Xi’an and Kitty again; they’re drinking the last of his orange juice outside the bathroom. The fingers of his right hand turn his phone over compulsively. It buzzes with a new message, but Erik doesn’t check it. Instead he walks into the work space he renovated over three years ago and walks up to the full length mirror he bolted to one of the walls.

The mirror is there for clients to look at tattoos placed in hard-to-see locations. Erik doesn’t usually use it himself; most of his tattoos are visible to him. Raven often uses it to admire her chimera, though Erik checks her back piece for touch ups himself.

The shirt the ladies at Triple Cha made him looks fine; with his black boxer briefs, it almost looks like he’s wearing a set. The inside of the upper hem of the half-sleeve has rubber adhered to it to keep it from slipping down his skin, but he’s not sure he likes the look of it. The idea behind the shirt is to display Raven’s journeyman piece by covering the others, but it can’t completely conceal the tattoos that flank the heart on his bicep.

Setting the phone on a bench, he rubs his hand over the tattooed heart. Raven put his heart on his sleeve; what a joke. It’s beautifully rendered; layers of red, blue, and purple watercolor-esque washes on a graphic-rendered heart. He traces fingertips over the ventricles and red mist to the dragon and back again. It has pleasant movement, a bit of eternity imagery to keep the eye constantly roving back and forth between heart and dragon. Charles eyes, though, don’t rove; they fix on the dragon and hardly deviate to his arm or any of the other works on his body.

On impulse, Erik pulls the sleeve off and then the shirt. He hooks his thumbs into his briefs and starts to pull them off too, but remembers Kitty and Xi’an at the last minute.

“Hey, Kitty,” he shouts, “lock the door on your way out; I’ve got some work to do in here and I don’t want to be disturbed.”

“Okay,” he hears her call back. “We’re on our way out now!”

“Thank you for the artwork, Mr –Thank you, Erik!” Xi’an calls next.

Erik waits for the sound of the door shutting as the two leave and then strips off his briefs. He’s always known he has a strange body. Most of his height is in his long torso which starts at hips so narrow they occasionally play up. One of the officers that worked with dogs said he reminded her of her German Shepherd. After that, she never used his name, just called him Shepherd. It was one of many jokes he never found funny.

Erik doesn’t want to think of that. Any of that. But he can feel those dark days coming back to him, creeping up from fingers that remembered violent events as they twisted Charles’ shirt this morning.

Not for the first time since meeting Charles, Erik wonders if he shouldn’t call Moira. He dismisses the thought just as he did the last time and refocuses on his image in the mirror.

Frost and Charles both think his brush-stroke tattoos are a subconscious way of crossing himself out. It’s unlikely since the black one wasn’t entirely his idea; an esteemed associate in Germany had suggested it. Later, after a London show, he had another collaborator add the red stroke that crossed it. Erik keeps his other tattoos from coming too close to the strokes; it’s an aesthetic choice rather than a personal one. None of his tattoos are personal, after all. None but the one Raven gave him and that very first one he gave himself back when he still believed in things.

Erik looks up and down his body. Other than tattoos, he has no modifications beyond his lack of foreskin. His circumcised penis is never called into question here in America. In Europe, it marks him as foreigner or Jew, but here it’s just another penis. Nobody cares about the lack of foreskin, only how big his dick is.

And that was part of how it started; the need to assert his Jewish identity. He declared himself with his first tattoo; he’d crudely stippled a perfectly straight Star of David into his thigh.

Erik slaps his left hand onto the mirror, covering his face’s reflection. “No. I did the right thing.”

He slides his hand down to his reflection’s throat and brings his other hand up to join it. His right thumb overlaps his left hand, his left thumb rests perfectly beneath the edge of his right hand’s palm.

Dr. Frost had said that the more he talked about it, the better he would feel, but she’d been wrong. The more he talked about it, the angrier he became. The more he even thought about it, the angrier he became. That’s where meditation came in; he couldn’t be cured, he’d always be an animal, but he could be managed.

He looks at his hands laying over his reflection’s throat and then up to his eyes. He’d wanted to take the inspiration from Multnomah Falls and set it onto paper, but now he wonders if it wouldn’t be better to get dressed, go back to his loft, and take a sleeping pill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't actually set out to make this a shirt-less chapter. It just... happened?


	9. Third party-negotiated de-escalation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the really real chapter nine, rather than the previous pseudo chapter nine that was nothing but 3K words that should have been in chapter eight! I pasted those 3K words into chapter eight where they belong, deleted the husk, and uploaded this new chapter in its place. I screen-capped the comments before deleting and have added them to the previous chapter's comments section.
> 
> I'm much happier with how this looks.

_Third party-negotiated de-escalation_

Tuesday morning is a work day for Raven, so she crawls out of bed before Charles. Charles’ mouth tastes terrible; he’d been out late with Raven and Sean for an underground show Darwin had leaked to them. There’d been burlesque, a variety of musical acts, and a show that involved scantily-clad men and women wearing strategically-placed iron plates, and carrying belt grinders. Sean had mostly been ecstatic that he got to talk to some European DJs slumming in America. Charles, however, spent most of the night pondering the existence of asbestos knickers.

Sean, Charles decides, as he pulls the pillow over his head and tries to swallow the rank taste in his mouth, is nowhere near as bad as he had expected his eggs to be. He is witty, often hilarious, perhaps a bit loud, but has a delightful air of fun that makes his shelf in the refrigerator a poor way to judge his character. While Sean can be messy in his own areas (room, fridge shelf), he is usually conscientious of the common areas of the huge loft. Charles has also discovered that during his bet with Raven, Sean was more than willing to use his Nike discount to buy her shoes. If nothing else endears him to Sean, helping his sister and asking nothing in return will always go a long way.

Out in the common area he hears Sean and Raven talking as Sean prepares to leave for his Nike day job.

“Am I still invited to your show next week?”

“What kind of question is that?” Raven asks from the bathroom. “Of course you are. You just don’t have an unpaid DJ gig now that we’re not using the roof. You can be lord of Quicksilver’s sound system, buckaroo. Pretty sure Erik will trust you with his turntable if you want to bring vinyl.”

“Nah,” Sean pipes back, “I’ll just record a couple different mixes for you and you tell me what you want and when. No dubstep and no classic rock, though, or I quit.”

“What if Erik wants you to play that awful post mortem folk of his?”

“I swear to God I’ll quit! I’ll mash up Matisyahu and Daft Punk or something for his punk ass! Just none of that awful crap. I mean, until I heard it, I would never have accused him of having a single hipster bone in his body.”

The shower comes on and Raven’s voice is louder to carry over the water and the walls. “Hah! It’s my show, he won’t dare! As for hipster bones in his body, I think he’d take one from the right guy!”

“Wow, gross. Image I didn’t need, Raven,” Sean calls back. Charles presses the pillow harder to his ears, but Sean is nothing if not loud. “I gotta go! If Janos doesn’t see the text I sent him, can you tell him I’m cool with picking up his dry cleaning?”

“Yeah, if I even see him,” Raven shouts back. “Don’t be late!”

“Okay, mom! See ya!”

Thanks to Raven’s gutter-bound sense of humor, Charles spends several moments thinking about what it might be like to fuck Erik. With a beautiful cock like Erik’s it would be a shame to waste it by taking his ass. Charles can penetrate or be penetrated, it depends on his mood or his partner; he can be bossy and demanding in either role. Erik’s cock, he thinks, would be a nice challenge.

Though it quickly becomes ferociously hot beneath the pillow, Charles pins it over his head and groans in frustration; there’s no telling if he and Erik can even come to an understanding. Despite that, if he wasn’t in his sister’s bed he would resign himself to a miserable finger fuck on as many fingers he could take. Instead he manages to drop back off into sleep until Raven returns.

She shakes his shoulder gently. “I have to go to work,” Raven reminds. “I can be a bit late since Erik always opens up, but I don’t really know what’s going through his head since yesterday’s drama.”

Charles sighs a hot breath into the mattress. “What are you getting at? What does you being late have to do with Monday?”

“I mean, I can be late because I don’t really have a set start time,” Raven says, shaking his shoulder again, “and Erik always opens early anyway. But, I don’t want to be super late because I don’t know what kind of mood he’s in. He hasn’t even looked at the last message I sent him and that was yesterday.”

Charles drags the pillow off his head and turns onto his back to look at her outlined in the orange light seeping in from the heavily draped factory windows. Even with a towel on her head and clad in a trashy combination of a tattered white tank top and black tights under cut-offs, she is lovely. She’s also wearing her usual layers of makeup; Charles wonders if Hank ever sees her without it. He’s never asked; he’s too afraid of the answer.

He doesn’t want to get up, but sudden irritation gives him the energy he needs to sit. It isn’t that he’s tired; he just doesn’t want to be anywhere near Erik unless he can talk to him and work out their issues. Supposing, of course, Erik wants to work out any issues after the firm dismissal he gave Charles at the Falls.

“Why don’t you go? I have my phone, laptop, and your wifi,” Charles says rubbing at his puffy eyes, “I can easily take care of myself today. I can get some work done, fart around your neighborhood, and if I’m particularly bored, I’ll clean the picture frames and pedestals you picked for your show.”

Raven’s expression turns conflicted. “Yeah, maybe that’s for the best. Considering how pissed you were with me—“

“Still am.”

“—I’ll probably have a lot of shit to deal with.” Raven spreads her hands in acknowledgment of Charles’ correction. “Be pissed all you like, Charles. I keep seeing you guys checking each other out; you’ll thank me later maybe. And I’ll definitely let you tell me that you told me so if nothing happens.”

“Raven,” Charles snorts, “I’m not going to get involved with somebody that had sex with you, let alone somebody that’s going to tattoo me even though he thinks it’s wrong.”

She pauses at the last part of his statement, but then shakes her head. “Yeah, well, whether he does it or I do it, you’re not getting out of it. Either way, Erik and I are both people you have an attachment of some kind to so it doesn’t really make a difference.”

“He hasn’t even shown me any designs since I got here,” Charles scoffs. Based on all Erik’s previous shock treatments, Charles is glad he hasn’t. “I don’t think he can manage that personal touch you said he was going for.”

“No, he can do it,” Raven says, rubbing the towel over her hair. Her eyes are distant, focused on something outside the realm of her bedroom. “You should see the ship he’s been doing for one of Kitty’s friends. It’s his style, but it’s tailored to her brilliantly and I don’t even think she told him why she wanted it or why she chose him. He can do the same for you if you’d just work with him.”

“What,” Charles replies, “and have him brand me the way you branded him with that dragon? I told him I don’t want that.”

“Jesus, Charles, which is it? First you doubt that he can do something deep for you and now you say you don’t want him to do something deep for you.” Raven drops the towel in her laundry hamper and then turns back around. “Besides, I thought you liked my design for Erik.”

Frustration and dueling emotions rise up into Charles’ breast, building on the irritation of being caught out in his double-speak. He does his best not to let those feeling get the better of him concerning Erik’s tattoo.

“I do like your design. I do.” He kicks his legs over the side of the bed to get closer to Raven and even look up into her eyes. “It looks even better on him than it did flat on the screen. It’s just that the way he behaves gives the dragon an ugly interpretation.”

Raven’s eyebrow quirks, an old habit she’s picked up from Charles. “We’re all a little ugly, but that’s really not the point of the design. Besides, the dragon is only half of it.”

Charles does his best not to look at her lip when she mentions ugliness; not because he considers her scars ugly, but because Raven always has. “Only half of it?”

“Well, yeah,” Raven laughs and softly knocks a loose fist against her brother’s temple. “The other half of the tattoo is the heart, remember? The heart on his sleeve?”

“Oh,” Charles says, because while the heart is part and parcel of the design, he hasn’t thought much about it.

* * *

At first Erik doesn’t notice Raven. He’s focused on his croquis pad and the stroke of his pen across the paper. He uses the croquis pad for quick life sketches when he’s out and about or down at Morpho, but he also uses it for working through shapes and forms that elude him. He’s gone through four pages, front and back, of nebulous line drawings that convey more movement than form. The current page is nearly full when Erik finally notices Raven walking toward him through the gallery space.

“You planning on looking at your messages,” she says, “or should I just read them to you?”

“I’m busy Raven,” he says evenly.

“Okay, then, I’ll read them to you.” She rummages through her purse for her phone. As soon as she finds it she pulls the heavily decorated item out and runs a finger over its face. “Here we go. You said you pay Quicksilver’s rent, not me. I replied, ‘Who’s going to be your buffer to the outside if I quit?’ And my next message is, ‘That was a shitty thing to say. I’m sorry. You’re being shitty, too. Can we talk?’ Then I wrote this one, ‘Fine, we’ll talk tomorrow morning.’”

Raven drops her phone back into her bag and then drops her bag on Erik’s croquis pad. “And here it is! Tomorrow morning! Let’s talk.”

“Let’s not,” Erik says. He picks her bag off the desk where it obscures his sketchbook and starts to drop it on the floor. Raven saves her bag before Erik gives it to gravity.

She sets the bag safely in the wall’s alcove and then pulls herself onto the desk instead. Slipping her feet from her sandals, she sets them on his thighs and kneads with her toes. Her eyes are dark with feeling; Erik doesn’t want to look at them at all.

“Raven,” Erik says, voice taking a sharper edge. “I’m working.”

“Yeah, sure,” she says and pulls the pen from his hand. “Me, too.”

Frustrated, he slaps the outside of her tights-clad thigh with the croquis pad. “You’re pissing me off. I’m working on something.”

“Pffft, whatever! The only person you owe conceptualizing to is Charles,” Raven says and leans forward over her thighs. Her vermillion hair trails over her blue shoulders like autumn leaves overlaying a surreal sky.

Erik chooses to not say that it’s precisely Charles he’s designing for. Instead he opens a desk drawer and takes out another pen. “Fine, I’ve got nothing for two hours and you have a show to prepare for. If we’re going to talk, you better get started.”

“Charles likes you.”

Erik tosses the pen directly back into the drawer and slams the drawer shut with a bang. “This isn’t talking; this is drama. I can’t do this shit, Raven. I’ve had enough drama in my life and your brother is season tickets to the Globe.”

Raven’s lower lip is pressed between her teeth. She’s looking at the drawer Erik just slammed closed. “Charles really gets under your skin, doesn’t he?”

It’s true. It’s been true since day one and Erik doesn’t know how to address it, so he tries a different tactic. “Be honest, Raven; when you met me in New York, back before I moved out here, what was your impression of me?”

And just like that, Raven sits back though her feet remain on Erik’s thighs. “You’ve always been intense, Erik, and you still are a really intense person. At that show I loved your work and your mind, but I couldn’t imagine how you were making any money. You had so much violent energy. The friend that came with me swore she saw a tether on your ankle.”

Erik denies nothing; he stares steadily into her face. “Do you really want somebody like that fucking your brother, Raven? Do you think _he_ wants somebody like me fucking him when he can’t even resolve his issues with you?”

“God, Erik, seriously,” Raven protests and leans forward further than before. She drops his pen and all but folds herself in half in her attempt to grab his knees. He thinks she means it to be a reassuring gesture, but he doesn’t feel the least bit reassured. “Two things, okay? One, you aren’t in that place anymore, whatever hell it was. Two, as much as we all like sex, this isn’t really about fucking. You both piss each other off like crazy, because you’re attracted to and intimidated by each other. I’ve been there; if it weren’t for Hank, I’d probably be just as defensive around people I like.”

“And even though Hank’s been good for you,” Erik replies, determined to throw the spotlight off himself, “Charles doesn’t approve of him.”

“Charles will _never_ approve anyone for me,” Raven huffs. “Even if I met some equally rich asshole from an equally prestigious family and institution; he or she would never be good enough. That’s why I will never try to get his approval beyond my stupid kneejerk reactions. I’d like to explain his overbearing bullshit, but it isn’t my story alone. I can only tell you vague things, like that we had a really fucked up, old money upbringing and that our mom and our stepdad were abusive. We only had each other and Charles tried to protect me.”

She takes her hand from his knees and runs her fingers through her hair several times. Stray strands of vermilion stick between her fingers; she pulls them all together and brushes them back and forth over her upper lip as she continues speaking. “One of my girlfriends once told me that we all learn defense mechanisms that help us survive shitty situations. That’s good, you know? But sometimes those defenses keep running long after we’re removed from the situation. You have them, I have them, and of course Charles has them.”

Raven is sounding more and more like Charles and Dr. Frost; nothing could be more irritating after all the introspection the day before. Introspection isn’t an easy habit for Erik; he usually only does it when he’s working on his anger in the safety of Quicksilver’s small back room. When he thinks back in the confines of the room, nose full of smoke and the weave of the rug under his hands or legs, everything’s under control. When other people bring Erik’s issues out of the privacy of that room it sends him back to the place that spawned his violence.

At least this isn’t really about him; it’s more of Raven and Charles’ issues. More pasts that nobody, including him, wants disclosed.

“You’re saying that Charles’ defense mechanism is smothering you,” Erik says, voice plainly sarcastic. “How’s that working for you?”

“It wasn’t always like that.” She looks at the hair caught between her fingers, but answers him directly. “When I needed protection he was always there. I think it helped distract him from... things. Maybe. But I’ve grown up and he’s still trying to protect his little sister. As for me, when I like somebody, really like them romantically, I feel vulnerable. Luckily Hank’s insecurities and some important things we have in common made me feel like we’re kindred spirits. Hank makes me feel strong. And you, well, you get angry, and anger scares people off. As far as defense mechanisms go, anger is pretty effective.”

“Have you been reading psychological thrillers again?” Erik picks his pen back up from the desk and flips to a new page in his croquis. “Why are we even talking about this? I’ve got real work to do.”

“Because,” Raven says in a soft voice, “you told Charles we had sex. Why did you do that?”

The pen slaps down on the pad with a sharp retort. It’s a good question, but not one Erik’s anticipated. Charles probably already read Raven the riot act on the subject, but that doesn’t make it easier to discuss. “Because I took him to a secluded part of the falls and it inspired him to proposition me.”

“So you told him as a tactic to ward him off?”

The pad and pen are dropped to his lap between Raven’s feet. Erik runs one hand across the bottom half of his face. “No, I remembered that you told Hank that the two of us had sex.”

Raven leans forward once again, pushing more of her weight onto Erik's thighs. “You told him because you wanted to get serious with him?”

Erik jerks his head up, his eyes bore into Raven’s. “What? No. No, he’s your brother. I owe both of you that respect. That decency.”

“Not really.” Raven’s face glows in an expression that looks suspiciously like triumph. “I only told Hank because I wanted to get serious with him.” She moves her hands over his thighs; more reassurance that rubs him the wrong way. “You and I had a mistaken fuck almost two years ago. If the fuck you wanted with Charles was just a proposition to you, then did you really need to tell him what we did?”

“Raven,” Erik replies sharply, “stop. I don’t want to talk about your brother. Yes, I’m sexually attracted to him, but anything more serious is nothing short of total and complete madness. I told him you and I fucked because he’s your brother. My body might want him, but my body doesn’t get to trump basic decency.”

“I’m not saying that lust and love are the same thing, Erik,” Raven retorts, “but you didn’t have to tell him! You could have just told him you wouldn’t have sex with him. But you didn’t. Why did you tell him instead of just turning him down?”

And that’s when Erik realizes that he doesn’t really know why he told Charles he’d fucked Raven. He’d wanted to get off with Charles, yes, but maybe he’d been taking that idea a little far. Telling people anything about his past mistakes is something he avoids, but he’d made the revelation. He’d made it not to get out of sex, but perhaps because he wants to satisfy a deeper connection than mere lust. But he’s not sure; Erik doesn’t really enjoy navel-gazing and second-guessing himself is an activity he rarely engages in.

“Good question,” he finally says and lifts Raven’s hands up off his legs. “I don’t know. Maybe you’re onto something. It seems counter-intuitive when all we do when we’re around each other is hiss like a couple of tom cats.”

Raven crosses her arms on the top of her knees and starts kneading Erik’s thighs with her toes again. She has a soft look in her eyes and a smile that shows no teeth. “I don’t really know what it is about Charles that attracts you; maybe his utter brilliance or his charm or his looks. I don’t know. But I think I know what he sees in you and it’s not dissimilar from what attracted me to you in the first place.”

Erik pushes her feet aside next. “I thought you tracked me down because of my art.”

Raven continues the motion Erik started by swinging her legs to the side of his chair. “Well, there was your art, but then I saw you blast those assholes wearing the Ed Hardy shirts. I swear, it was like being at tattoo church and you totally smote them with the power of a tattoo Messiah.”

“Tattoo Messiah?” Erik snorts, amused despite the deep irony. “I remember that. Normally I leave those people be, but they had more Sailor Jerry flash with them and wanted my rates. Some prankster told them I did ‘Ed Hardy style’ at a discount.”

“It was your slap down,” Raven says and shakes her head. “You slapped them down with such cold and terrifying intensity that it was like seeing somebody physically struck. I came back and talked to you the next day. I was scared of you but I was in awe of your honesty. There’s not a lot of sincerity among the people I knew back in New York, Erik. I knew I had found a true artist and I knew I’d be a fool to pass up a chance to get to know you. People can say what they will, but when it comes down to it, your honesty and sincerity define you more than your temper.”

“Sincerity?” Erik shakes his head. “If that’s what you want to call it. Obviously my so-called defense mechanism doesn’t work on you.”

“Nah,” she says, sliding off the edge of the desk. “Charles and I had a very angry, very irrational step-parent. You might’ve been angry back then and you might be angry now, but you don’t _really_ want to hurt anybody.”

For a long moment, one that stretches toward the distinctly uncomfortable, Erik pierces her with an unblinking gaze. Even when his eyes start to feel dry, Erik holds the look, willing Raven to understand with wordless communication alone that she has never been more mistaken about anyone in her life.

Raven stares back, perhaps a little sad, but definitely unimpressed. “Erik,” she says, laying her hand on the back of his, “I don’t know what happened to you, or what you did, but none of the people that matter in life will hold your past against you.”

It takes all his self-control to not spit at her that she’s right, because the most important person in his life is dead. He continues to say nothing and Raven’s used to his silence, so she takes her hand away after squeezing his once.

“So, drinks after work tomorrow?”

“No.” Erik puts his pen back to the paper. “I said Saturday.”

He hears Raven’s dramatic sigh, but he doesn’t look up from his sketch pad. “What about Kornblatts on Friday morning instead? I know you love the breakfast spread there.”

“Here, Saturday morning,” Erik replies. “I’ll get us take out.”

“Tell you what,” Raven counters, “I’ll be your Shabbos goy and pick up breakfast and bring it by your place. You’ve got that big boxing bag, right? Charles probably wouldn’t mind getting some practice in.”

Erik’s pen doesn’t hesitate on the page. “Fine. Bring Kornblatts or Kenny & Zukes. Be there before nine.”

* * *

The week passes quickly; but for a few hours each day, Charles is rarely alone and when he is, he works with his colleagues via Skype and email. If Sean isn’t taking him out to cafes, breweries and even a flash mob, then he’s visiting museums, wine bars, and shopping with Janos. Sean and Janos are a study in contrasts and it fascinates Charles that two very different people find it tolerable to live together with his sister. It can only be their love of the arts that keeps them together.

Sean prefers loud, exciting venues and insists that Janos does, too, but only if he’s accompanied with somebody he can pass off as a significant other. Charles can attest to this as he has, at one of the wine bars, found Janos slipping his hand into Charles’ when admirers got too close. Janos never speaks unnecessarily, but Charles has learned he has a broad vocabulary of sarcastic and disdainful expressions that serve him better than words and which preserves the mysterious persona he cultivates. He rarely speaks about his Russian boyfriend, but he usually has a good word to pass on concerning Raven and Sean. Of Sean he says he might seem flaky, but that his reliability and good heart make him an exceptional roommate.

Charles enjoys his time with them and Raven; they successfully distract him from what, or rather whom, Charles wants to think about the least. So it seems like no time at all before he’s holding a lapful of takeout bags and Raven is parking Erik’s truck at a far more reputable-looking loft building in a much better area than her own. Their mutual moaning about the early hour lulls as Charles gathers up the bags from the Jewish deli and they walk together for the building’s lobby.

Raven has a key for the main door; a door which, in stark contrast to Raven’s, is modern glass and steel and swings open effortlessly on silent hinges. The elevator isn’t spacious but it’s clean and quiet; nothing like the rickety utility lift at Raven’s place.

“Why don’t the three of you live someplace like this?” Charles asks as the elevator quietly ascends.

“Because Erik pays more than the three of us combined, has a quarter of the space, and a lot more rules to follow,” Raven answers as she watches the floor numbers light and then dim. “He wants to move into my building but there’s a revolving door of leasing and subleasing that prevents him from getting his own floor.”

“When you move out, he can move in,” Charles suggests. He wants to scoff because Raven can definitely afford it, but he manages to keep the thought from bolting past his brain-mouth filter. “Surely Janos and Sean wouldn’t mind his steady income and all his incense. Besides, Janos will eventually move to New York, won’t he?”

“Our landlady would love to have Erik move in,” Raven says. “But Erik isn’t interested in having roommates. He’s being silly if you ask me, because he spends so little time here anyway. I can’t count the number of times I’ve found him sleeping at Quicksilver.”

Charles finds the information strange, but also somewhat familiar. After all, he often dreads his flat in Oxford; it never fails to remind him how easily he can fall into an abyss of silent solitude. How very alone and empty he can become.

Further thoughts are spared him by the opening of the elevator’s doors. They walk out onto a concrete floor which Charles finds both modern and ugly. Raven leads him to the left, down a hall that is painted white from the high ceiling halfway to the floor. At the halfway point terra cotta takes over from the white and spans to meet the floor. The orange brightens the glazed, gray concrete.

Erik’s door is at the end of the hall. Raven knocks twice as a courtesy before inserting her key into the lock. She pauses before turning the key. “Erik rarely has people over, Charles. He probably only really agreed to this because it’s the Jewish Sabbath today. I think he used to be really strict about observing Jewish rules, but maybe now it’s just a habit? I don’t know.”

Charles nods his understanding; he wonders for the first time if Erik’s loss of faith was a painful one. “I will do my best to be respectful.”

Raven leans over and presses her lips to his cheek. “You rock, Professor Sexypants.”

The key turns and the lock releases; Raven opens the door onto a flood of natural light. Erik’s loft apartment is in the back half of the fifth floor along a bank of arched factory windows that are even bigger than Raven’s despite a lower ceiling. The floor is more unremitting concrete, the perimeter walls are exposed brick, and the ceiling is exposed plumbing, heating, and electrical wiring.

The floor plan is open; the kitchen wraps around the entryway to the right while what is presumably Erik’s bedroom and bathroom wraps around to the left.  The concrete and drywall walls that lead to Erik’s room are lined with sheets of metal which are hung gallery-style. The windows are all open but the breeze coming in through the screens does nothing to dissipate the embedded scent of incense.

Charles passes the take out to Raven and wanders over to get a closer look at the sheets of metal, but is distracted from his destination by the black bag hanging from a plate bolted to the ceiling.

One side of the heavy bag is faded from sun, the opposite side has a patch that’s a little worn from friction. He runs his fingers along the vinyl cover and the Everlast logo; it’s an old bag and the sun-bleaching might have come long before Erik installed it.

“You’re welcome to have at it,” Erik says from the left. Charles turns to watch Erik approach from the vicinity of what he assumes to be the bedroom. Charles is struck that for such a tall man, Erik can be remarkably quiet.

“Maybe a bit later,” Charles says with what he hopes is an open smile. “Frankly, I’m famished and I haven’t had a decent New York bagel in months.”

Erik looks like he’s making just as much of an effort; he tips his head to the side and gives a small shrug. “I wouldn’t say these will taste of New York, but at least they’re boiled.”

“Oh,” Charles says with mock surprise. “That’s right, Raven said she met you in New York. Could this mean we have something in common?”

Charles tracks Erik’s hesitation, the small tightening of his jaw that gives away his tension. “That depends on how you like your bagels. I prefer them boiled and dense.”

“That sounds like New York to me,” Charles nods. “I like them the same way; chewy and dense with some kind of spread. But Raven says we picked up Montreal style bagels.”

“Montreal.” Erik looks like he can’t decide to be magnanimous or critical of the declaration. Charles is secretly amused when Erik goes for neutral. “Then you went to Kenny & Zuke’s. The crust is sweeter than a New York bagel, but they’re good.”

“They’re sweet?” Charles asks and turns toward Erik’s kitchen. “If the crust is sweeter than usual, they can’t really be a good bagel for savory spreads, can they?”

Erik falls into step beside him, his bare feet quiet on the concrete floor. “They’re not sweet like a dessert bread; you can still have them with whitefish or lox.”

When they come to the kitchen, Raven is looking in Erik’s refrigerator. Bagels, assorted containers of toppings, paper bags and the like are spread across Erik’s kitchen island, between the oven’s cooking surface and a block of knives. Three white plates are already set out with appropriate flatware.

Charles tries not to think about how at home Raven is in Erik’s apartment. Neither Raven nor Erik said where they fucked, but Raven had insisted it wasn’t in her bed or even at her loft. That leaves Quicksilver, which seems out of character for Erik, and his loft, which is more appropriate for drunken lechery.

“How long have you lived here?” Charles asks to distract himself. It’s a normal enough question, safe enough.

“Almost three years,” Erik says and looks through the food they brought. “It’s not my first choice, but it meets most of my needs. Nobody on this floor works nights, so if my work gets a little noisier than usual during the day nobody complains.”

Charles takes a plate and sets it before him, snags a pre-cut, sesame-coated bagel and then follows Erik’s progress as he pops the tops off of containers. “Why would your work get noisy?”

“I have projects outside of tattooing,” Erik says, looking critically at a small container of capers. "I'd like to eventually find a place where I could do some metal work."

Charles thinks back to the metal sheets and wonders if they might be something Erik’s worked on or not. It isn’t as if Raven only sketches her work in her art programs; all her shows in New York ran a gamut of mediums.

Erik looks up from the food to Raven’s rummaging in his fridge. “There’s a lemon in the bottom drawer and more capers on the door.”

Raven holds the lemon up. “I was looking for the capers. I love capers.”

“You love capers?” Charles asks. “But you won’t eat veal.”

Raven closes the fridge and sets the lemon and bottle of capers down. “Capers are not cute little calfy-kins that are kept in crates and fed milk until they collapse, Charles.”

“Hasn’t Janos told you his caper story?” Charles asks. “I admit that picking capers isn’t on the same level as veal, but picking caper buds and berries from such thorny plants isn’t very kind. He said his fingers were always bleeding.”

Raven pauses with a garlic bagel halfway to her plate. “Janos telling stories to anyone but Az is a testament to your charm, Charles. You be careful with that; I told you Janos and Az are having issues. If you want to hit that please wait until they’ve split because, whoah, Az is scary.”

“Azazel is the jealous type,” Erik says. “If Janos is interested in you and Az is coming to the show, stick close to me or Sean.”

Charles rolls his eyes. “I’ll probably be close to Raven at the show. However, there’s nothing to worry about. I’m fairly certain Janos is besotted with this terrifying angel of death; he spent a good deal of our time together texting the man and sending him selfies.”

“Oh,” Raven says, relief obvious. “That’s good. He show you any of his pictures of Az? He looks like a criminal. Kinda handsome, but terrifying.”

To Charles’ surprise, Erik doesn’t look relieved at all, perhaps a bit more tense. “Do you think I have something to worry about?”

Erik shrugs and finally reaches for a poppy-seed bagel. Charles waits for Erik to say something, but he’s once again neglecting his turn in the conversation. Charles watches, instead, as Erik’s long-fingered hands take a butter knife and carve out a slab of cream cheese to layer onto his bagel. Is it Azazel or is it something else? Perhaps the part before about being close to Raven for the show?

“Nope,” Raven says, easily taking Erik’s turn. “If Janos is displaying so much interest in Azazel while you guys are hanging out, then I think he’s being very clear about his intentions. As clear as Janos can be, that is. I bet you never thought you’d meet somebody less talkative than Erik.”

Erik doesn’t respond to Raven’s bait. He takes the capers from Raven’s side of the kitchen island and places a spoonful on his cream cheese layer. “If you want any of these, despite the cruelty, get them before Raven does.”

Charles points to the deli-provided capers in their little, plastic condiment cup. If Erik’s going to play the conversation game, Charles figures he can test the waters. “I’ve enough, I think. By the way, Raven says you’re working through concepts for me again.”

Raven narrows her eyes at Charles and points a butter knife at him without saying a word, but Erik nods. Erik nods and drops a layer of salmon on his bagel and follows it up with onions. “It’s not ready, but it’s taking shape. No birds this time.”

Then Erik reaches for the kitchen block for a knife and Charles freezes, his hand halts in the act of spreading cream cheese. His vision centers on Erik’s hand and nothing else. While neither Kurt nor Sharon had ever used a knife on him or Raven, he certainly had had his share of seeing Kurt wave one around threateningly.

Without a moment of hesitation, Erik pulls a knife from the block and takes the lemon from Raven. Charles relaxes, but is shaken enough to forget to conceal a shaky sigh of relief. Erik divides the lemon into wedges. He places two wedges on Charles’ plate and says, voice calm and quiet, “I’m not the stabbing type.”

“You…” Charles’s voice dries in his throat. He looks from Erik’s stony face to Raven. Raven looks horrified. She stares at her butter knife as if it is to blame. He tries to find his voice again and tells himself it’s for Raven’s sake, because he can do things for her that he can never do for himself. “It isn’t you. It was our stepfather.”

Where Erik took Charles’ reaction to the knife in grim stride, he seems far less immune to Charles’ brief explanation. His pale eyes track up to Charles’ then to Raven’s sad expression and back to Charles. “Your stepfather used a knife on you?”

“Kurt threatened us, but he didn’t stab.” Charles shakes his head and presses more cream cheese into his bagel; he nearly flattens the firm interior all the way to the shiny, brown crust. He never talks about these things, rarely even with Raven and Erik is the last person he wants to open up to. But Erik doesn’t talk about Erik’s past so there’s no reason to believe he will pressure Charles to do so. “I don’t think this is really breakfast conversation material. Let’s leave it at that, shall we?”

It’s quiet after that, but Charles finds the bagels are excellent and that the sweet bagel crust goes just fine with salmon and cream cheese. Erik doesn’t treat him any differently, he asks no questions, and that more than anything puts Charles at ease. Erik does, however, give him half his next bagel which he treats with a whitefish salad that was popular in New York but which Charles has never tried. He finds he likes it.

Raven eventually comes over to their side of the kitchen island to stand next to Charles. He reads it as a search for reassurance and responds by wiping imaginary crumbs from the corner of her mouth. She rolls her eyes at his treatment and bumps him with her hip, but he doesn’t miss the return of her good mood when she returns to the caper devastation on her plate. Erik wasn’t wrong; she’s gone through a fourth of his jar already.

After bagel sandwiches, Raven produces chocolate fudge brownies from another bag. Erik declines, but pours them milk anyway. Even though he’s done eating, Erik stays in the kitchen with them as Charles and Raven descend into more sibling teasing. Raven tries to include Erik, but he isn’t drawn in by her attempts. Charles thinks Erik enjoys observing them, but doesn’t know how to interact. Of course, he’ll be the first to admit he has a dismal record at understanding Erik and his motivations.

By 10am, the three of them are in Erik’s living space; Charles and Raven lounge on Erik’s surprisingly mid-century modern Baughman couch. It’s a stark contrast to Quicksilver’s more romantic set up. Charles finds the blocky couch far more comfortable than all its right angles would suggest. The only thing he doesn’t like about it is the faint aroma of cigarette smoke underneath the ever-present Asian incense.

“I like your taste in furniture,” Charles comments, running a hand across the plum wool. “You never went to design school?”

Erik leans against the bricks between two of the huge windows. “I never went, no. I had some vocational training, though.”

Raven pats the arm of the couch and explains. “Erik pulled this and the couch at work out of dumpsters and reupholstered them.”

At first Charles doesn’t believe her; the antique couch at Quicksilver was a dumpster find? “You’re joking,” he laughs in disbelief. “Who actually does things like that? If something has been thrown out, there’s a reason for it. It was probably ingrained with cat urine and riddled with rat nests. Hazardous waste.”

His laughter dries up when Erik shrugs and Raven shoves a heel into Charles side. “But,” he coughs, “yours are so nice? If you repaired them, then you’ve an amazing ability. Maybe you should think about design? You’re, what, thirty-three? You can still go to school; it’s never too late.”

Erik turns to look out one of the windows. “I don’t need school. I’ve libraries, the internet, and a wide range of artists and professionals I can draw on here in Portland or other parts of the world if I need them.”

Charles draws his eyes down the jagged architecture of Erik’s backlit profile. On impulse he shoves off the couch and walks over to the heavy bag. He places his left hand on the bag and drags it along the vinyl as he circumnavigates it. “You know I box a little, but you haven’t really told me what you can do.”

Erik turns from the window to meet Charles’ eyes. His lips turn up at one corner. “I think I told you I don’t have any training. I only know how to not hurt myself when I punch it.”

A laugh bubbles up from Charles’ chest; he pushes the bag at Erik gently and takes its weight when gravity brings it back. “Come now, Erik. I’m sure you’re better than you’re letting on.”

Charles counts three beats of his heart before Erik exhales through his nose and shrugs with his whole body. It feels a little like conquest.

“Fine,” Erik says and joins him at the bag. “If you want to be underwhelmed, this is a good way to go about it.”

The first thing Charles looks at is Erik’s stance; it’s amateurish at best and far too narrow. Charles could probably pepper him with hooks until Erik gave in or fell down. At least he’s on the balls of his feet. His eyes track up to loosely bent knees, which are promising, then the twisted waist that goes on forever, and hits the vulnerable torso that is the work of his foot placement. His hands don’t guard properly, but they do form decent fists.

Erik needs no direction when or where to throw his punches; he moves with incredible alacrity and conviction. The bag reverberates with each fast strike and dances in place on the end of its chains. Erik’s bare knuckles connect time and again with the solid bag, but even with all Erik’s speed and his gloveless ferocity, Charles is thoroughly underwhelmed.

When Erik throws a punch he hits the bag, even bare-knuckled, with an impressive amount of power. If he threw the punch correctly, if he had the stability and power that comes from a solid base, it would be more effective. As it is, the bag shudders and the chains ring, but Charles isn’t excited so much as he is strangely disappointed. Erik is a graceful man and that beauty is at odds with his ignorance of form. What good is power without the ability to harness it?

Another series of punches rock the bag but do nothing but underline the faults in Erik’s stance and delivery. It’s too painful to watch him perform badly; Charles finally grabs the bag and pulls it back.

Erik lowers his fists and straightens; he doesn’t appear the slightest bit winded.

“You have a lot of power and your reach is a huge advantage,” Charles admits, “but your stance is sub par at best. Footwork is the platform from which you deliver your fists. If your platform is unstable, you sacrifice time and energy in attack and offense.”

He allows gravity to take the bag back to center once more but moves around it to stand next to Erik. He drops into a copy of Erik’s narrow stance. “This is how you were standing. Your front foot was too far forward and your right was turned inward. Go ahead and take that position again and I’ll show you how to fix it.”

Silently, Erik obeys Charles’ request and resumes his stance right next to Charles. This close Charles can smell his aftershave and the vestiges of smoky sandalwood. The scent spears his head and triggers a shot of adrenaline through his body. Slowly, with the same care he would show a stray animal, Charles places his hands on Erik’s back. Heat from his prior activity springs immediately through the thin cotton shirt.

“Good,” Charles says. Charles is many things difficult and base and he owns those things; badly, at times, but he owns them. The part of himself that he has always been easy to accept, though, is his inner educator. It comes to him naturally and brings with it calm and confidence.

“I thought you said this was bad,” Erik replies, but Charles merely grins and pushes on Erik’s back. Straightaway, Erik’s hands shoot out to balance and he steps from his narrow stance to save himself a fall.

“Your words,” Charles chuckles, “not mine. Don’t think of it as bad, but as inefficient. All martial arts are about efficiency.”

“All martial arts are about inflicting injury,” Erik says and moves back into his previous stance. He leans back against Charles’ hands. He musn’t be offended by Charles’ little push.

“No,” Charles says and reaches down to tap at one of Erik’s calves. Obediently, Erik moves that leg out and into a wider stance. “Martial arts are about self-defense and occasionally the defense of those who cannot defend themselves.”

“If you insist.” Clearly Erik disagrees but is avoiding escalation. Charles can respect that; besides it means he gets to have his hands on his beautiful body a little longer.

This time when Charles pushes, Erik is ready for it; his hands move for balance but his feet don’t move off the floor. “There it is. That’s your platform. Now, can I see more of your footwork?”

Erik lowers his fists and turns around, lightly amused. “I don’t have any.”

Charles scoffs. “How can you have punches and no footwork? Where did you learn to fight?”

“Alone,” Erik says, suddenly closed expression speaking volumes. “I learned to fight alone.”

Few sentences could strike Charles as deeply. His heart clenches in painful empathy. “I understand. I suppose we all do learn to fight alone to some extent, but maybe we don't have to remain that way.”


	10. Triple feature

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles says one thing right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big shout out to [Tahariel](http://tahariels.tumblr.com/) for a thorough beta-read on this chapter and to [eilidh](http://eilidh.tumblr.com/) for catching more of my typos. You guys make me look good!

 

_Triple feature_

One of the mixes Sean made Raven is playing over Quicksilver’s sound system while Raven, Charles, and Erik prepare for Raven’s show. Charles assists Raven by helping her carry pedestals and frames up from Erik’s truck. Most of the work is left to Raven, but Erik isn’t idle; he’s busy mounting three tablets on the wall usually dominated by the red couch.

All three tablets are framed and uploaded with Raven’s portfolio. Charles is surprised slides of her gigantic, forever-drying oil paintings made their somewhat lurid way into the tablets. He notes that Erik clearly has enough of a sense of humor to place those pictures near the beginning of each tablet’s slideshow; humor or an appreciation for shock value. Conspicuously absent from the portfolio is the finished journeyman piece; only the sketches that led up to it have been included.

Erik wants everything for Thursday’s show ready by Wednesday afternoon and, oddly enough for both Charles and Raven, they’re running ahead of schedule. It’s only just 11am by the time Charles brings the last pedestal up. They’re heavy, but their bases are covered in felt, which makes them easy to slide along the wooden floors, and Raven moves them around according to some arcane agenda.

As Charles climbs the stairs with the pedestal, he hears a second set of foot steps behind him, and if the pedestal wasn’t so heavy or the stairs not an awkward place to turn, he would look over his shoulder. Quicksilver is the only business on the second floor and the third isn’t let out, so it must be somebody there for Erik or Raven. At the top stair he sets down the pedestal and turns with a smile for the person shadowing him.

Following him up is a handsome woman with deeply weathered features clad in the uniform of an American postal employee. She has a handful of mail for Quicksilver; mostly magazines, letters, and one thick express envelope which she uses to gesture at the leaded glass door. “You work here?”

“Do I look like I work here?” Charles glances meaningfully down at his t-shirt and shorts; he has plenty of skin on display and none of it is decorated.

“Fair enough,” she replies, and starts to push past him.

Charles stops her with a wink and an outstretched hand. “My sister works here. I can take those in for you if you like.”

The mail carrier winks back and slaps the mail into his open hand. “Well then, kiddo, maybe you should think about getting a job here so you can pretty the place up. The other guy never smiles.”

A delighted laugh escapes Charles at the mail carrier’s flirting. It’s been a few days since he’s had somebody as admiring to flirt with, so he leans against the pedestal, tucks the mail close to his chest, and replies. “With a recommendation like that, how can I resist?”

She grins and Charles spots a bright gold tooth amongst the ivory. “I expect to see you later then, kid,” she says. With a wave she turns and takes the stairs two at a time on her way back down. Charles hopes he’s as spry when he gets to her age.

Charles smile is still in place when he walks in to deliver Quicksilver’s mail. Erik’s hands are full with hanging the second of the three tablets so he sets the pile on the pedestal Raven is setting one of her many empty frames against. There’s a bit of masking tape on the top of the pedestal that has been marked ‘Phoenix’; the extravagant, gold frame is similarly tagged.

The gallery space looks more open to Charles even though the walls are being lined with the tablets and other examples of Raven’s recent tattoo-related art. The coffee table is in the storage room and the antique couch is temporarily relocated against the opposite wall beneath the expansive window; tomorrow it will go into the storage room, too.

Raven looks away from what she’s doing to sort the pile of mail with one hand and gestures toward the workspace with the other. She starts to speak, perhaps to tell Charles to set inside, but then stops and shuts her mouth, her brow furrowing in a frown of concentration. The hand that gestured freezes as she snags the express envelope from the bottom of the stack and slips it free. Charles sees the sender’s name the moment Raven shrieks.

“Sentimental Ink! Angel sent us our advance copies of Senti Ink! Oh my shit!” Raven squeals and does an excited little dance, then seizes Charles in a sudden and brutal hug. “My first feature!”

“I thought it was Erik’s feature,” Charles teases and hugs her back. It might be Erik’s feature, but Raven must necessarily be a major part of it.

She’s so excited she doesn’t even step away from the hug to rip the tab off the express envelope, but does it with her arms outstretched behind Charles’ back. “It’s a joint feature, okay? Still my first, joint or not!”

And then she shrieks again, this time almost directly in Charles’ ear. “Erik! Oh my fucking God! Erik, you’re the fucking cover boy and it’s almost as sexy as the modeling you did for Triple Cha!”

Charles is tempted to push her away after assaulting his ear like that, but it’s nice to be so close to Raven in her moment of exultation so he merely lets go of her and turns in her arms so they can both face the three plastic-wrapped magazines in her hands.

It’s easy to focus on Erik’s picture on the cover of the magazine; the page is stark white but for text and Erik’s shirtless figure. And of course it is a riveting photo; his image pops out from the white background, a curious mixture of imposing thanks to his unsmiling stare and sympathetic due to a sensual pose that originates from a habit of placing most of his weight on his left foot.

With the color on the page saturated and the contrast dialed up, Raven’s journeyman tattoo is eerily animate on Erik’s skin. It glistens wetly even though Charles is sure it must have been fully healed by the time it was photographed. Marketing, he supposes, but forgets about that as soon as he focuses on Erik’s arm and the heart Raven tattooed there. Wet as it is, the look is visceral.

“That…” Charles murmurs, “is quite a feature.”

“They totally have him in a fucking tribhanga,” Raven says gleefully. “Hey, Erik, did you know the photographer was going for a triple-bend pose?”

Erik doesn’t look at them. He’s finished hanging the second tablet and has the third in his hands. His lack of clear expression speaks volumes as does his lack of interest in the magazine. “No, but she did get me to tilt my head to the side and lift the one shoulder.”

“What’s a tribhanga?” Charles asks. “It sounds somewhat Kama Sutra-ish.”

That gets Erik’s attention, but he only looks at Charles long enough to glower before turning back to the level app displayed on the tablet’s screen.

“You’re half right; it’s a pose in classical Indian statues,” Raven says. “It’s supposed to be kind of sensual. I don’t know if the photographer was going for that specifically, but it looks great. Senti Ink doesn’t usually go for sexy stuff, but it certainly can’t hurt their sales.”

“Well,” Charles says, “why don’t you rip the plastic off one of these so we can see the photo shoot? I hope there are some nice pictures of you in there.”

Leaving the pedestals and frames aside for the moment, Raven drifts over to the couch with Charles at her side. “Hey, Erik, put the tablet down and come over here. Angel said she wrote a good article.”

Erik doesn’t move from where he’s standing. “I’ll look at it later. Just tell me if it bashes my work or me.”

Raven frowns at Erik’s terse reply, but Charles brushes it off by sitting down with her and urging her to hurry up and just open it. Sitting on the couch has become a little uncomfortable for him since he learned where it came from, but Charles overlooks it in his enthusiasm.

His eagerness easily infects Raven; she rips the plastic off and flips quickly through the colorful pages and other features to get to the main story. It comes as no surprise that Angel used the photographer’s words that first day to title the piece; _Putting the Heart on Erik Lehnsherr’s Sleeve_.

The feature’s splash page shows a tight close up of Raven drawing the heart on Erik’s arm with a medical marker. She’s shown in profile, her golden waves of hair clipped back from her round face as she draws directly on Erik’s skin.

“Hah,” Raven crows. “You got the cover and I got the full page facing the story!”

Charles looks over at Erik again even as he hugs Raven once more. Erik doesn’t look away from what he’s doing; his hands are busy with the last stages of hanging the framed tablet.

“Should have been the other way around,” Erik says.

“Yes,” Charles agrees with a quick peck to Raven’s cheek. “Beautiful girls are always nice on the cover of magazines.”

“Senti is targeted at women,” Raven snorts, “though I doubt their readership is particularly straight. Oh, shit, I wonder if they printed my chimera!”

Figuring they’d read later, Charles chuckles as Raven nearly rips the page in her haste to turn it. None of his publications have inspired the same sort of gusto he sees in her.

The feature is image-heavy and many of the photos are of Raven and Erik interacting. In one shot taken before Charles had shown up, Erik has a wry smile on his face, a stopwatch app running on his phone, and a laughing Raven either assembling or disassembling a tattoo machine. Charles focuses on Erik’s slightly blurry face and the curve of his lips. This is a side to Erik he hasn’t seen much of, if at all, but obviously it exists. Did Raven do that or was it Angel Salvadore?

_Do I bring out the worst in him? Or does Raven bring out the best in us both?_ He doesn’t like the idea of sharing Raven with Erik, even less the idea of him fucking her, but that smile? Charles wants to draw it out of Erik himself. Then, of course, there’s Raven’s smile; it’s light, free, and so effortless.

A flash of blue is the only warning the magazine is going straight for Charles’ face before it connects. He jolts back against the couch and ends up staring cross-eyed, eyelashes brushing blue print. “Jesus, Raven! Warn a person, would you?”

“It’s my chimera!” Raven giggles. “They printed my chimera as an example of our collaborative work.”

Charles seizes the magazine from her hands to get a better look at the photo. There are two shots, both with her blouse off and clutched to her chest. One shows the lioness body and the writhing blue serpent tails, the other photo shows the serpent coils that cover her shoulders. As Angel had said, there’s no true nudity. Charles releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Raven side-eyes him at that, but keeps her smile.

She takes the magazine back without commentary and turns the page. The rest of the photos are mostly devoted to the production and execution of her journeyman piece. They range from sketches, to digital paintings, to the initial session when Erik had appeared to balk. The final two shots are both of Erik; one is a variation of the cover shot and the other is of him staring into the camera while holding up two white cards, each with a familiar red word inscribed in bold script.

“Don’t stop?” Charles asks, frowning profoundly. He’d like to stare at the picture of Erik, but Raven is more important. “Raven, please don’t tattoo your hands.”

“Charles,” Raven sighs, “don’t ruin this for me. My first feature. Come on, tell me how nice I look instead.”

“You do,” he says. He takes the magazine from her and turns the pages back to the previous pictures of her. She looks far more beautiful with the waves of honey hair. “I’m glad they did the shoot before you changed your hair.”

“Yeah,” she replies and rolls her eyes. “But I prefer my new color and cut, because it’s for me alone, not you or anyone else. Same with my tattoos; they’re for me. Even the finger tattoos are for me; they’ll be Erik’s journeyperson gift.”

Charles brushes his fingers over the picture of her with the disassembled tattoo machine. “Well, your smile is always beautiful.”

“You don’t mean that,” Raven sighs, “but thanks anyway.”

The comment is loaded with a sting that takes Charles between the ribs and strikes his heart. It isn’t anything he doesn’t deserve.

“I had that coming,” he says and then ventures further into painful territory. “Raven, I haven’t been a good brother at times, I know, but even when I’m an ass it doesn’t mean I don’t cherish the moments we have together.”

“Oh hush,” she says with a tender smile. “You think I don’t know that? You’re getting serious again. You get this wrinkle between your eye brows when you get serious. Smooth that sucker out.”

She lifts her hands up to cradle his face and rub at his forehead with her thumbs. Her fingers are often much cooler than her palms; they feel nice. “Out damned spot,” she jokes.

“With all those pictures of you and your work,” Charles murmurs, relaxing under Raven’s ministrations despite himself, “I think the feature is more yours than Erik’s. It may have his name on it, but you’re the focus.”

“That should fuel the assholes that say I’m a bourgeois skag using Erik as a ticket to legitimacy. Not that I care, a little controversy is good for business.”

She doesn’t sound upset, more amused, but the comment undoes all the relaxing she’d coaxed from him. Indignant, Charles slaps the magazine down on his lap. “As if! They have no idea the sort of legitimacy you’ve sacrificed in order to lower yourself to their filthy little world.”

This time Raven rolls her eyes and Erik, finally finished with the tablet, looks over at them with an eyebrow raised. “Welcome to the swine pit, Raven.”

“Thank you, glad I could make it,” Raven says and pats Charles’ cheek in a mock slap.

The light slap to Charles’ cheek is meant to reassure, but only frustrates him more. Maybe Raven doesn’t bring out the best in him. He doesn’t apologize, because he isn’t sorry, but he doesn’t want Raven to endure his censure when this is so obviously a moment she’s been looking forward to for so long.

“You know,” he ventures, “at this rate we might be able to compete publication for publication.”

Beside him Raven’s failing smile lifts slightly, but her eyes simply shine. At the opposite wall, Erik turns fully around to observe the new exchange. His eyes are more on Charles than Raven and Charles finds this attention goes to his head.

“Yes,” Charles continues, playing it serious and gesturing down to the magazine pages. “Every mention or photo in a tattoo magazine counts as one point. A cover photo is twenty points. Every feature is ten points. However, anytime you share the feature or photo, you must divide the points by the number of people you share it with.”

“So,” Raven says slowly, turning the pages of magazine while it sits on Charles’ thighs. “Does every photo in the feature count?”

“Hmm,” Charles drapes his right arm around her while keeping hold of the left side of the magazine with his other hand. “Normally I would say that isn’t really fair; science isn’t exactly a celebrity-staffed field. However, I suppose I am rather photogenic, so my photo does show up more often than my colleagues’ do, plus I have a huge head start on you. So, yes, that’s acceptable as long as you agree that I get one point for every four citations.”

“Done,” Raven grins and hugs him close. In his ear she says, “I’m going to give you a run for your money!”

Relieved he’s saved the situation he hugs her back and presses a kiss to her violently orange hair. When he looks past her head and over her shoulder he sees Erik nod at him with a slight smile. The smile vanishes, however, when Erik picks up one of the plastic-wrapped magazines.

Charles opens his mouth to say something encouraging, but closes it in order to focus on Raven and her positive mood. What he doesn’t say, what he doesn’t even want to think about, is that every single picture of Raven in the magazine shows her either smiling or laughing. In fact, her default state in Portland is not at all what it was when they lived together or when she visited him in England.

The truth, now that he’s spent so much time with Raven here in Portland, is that she’s the happiest he’s ever seen her and that her happiness has little, if anything, to do with him.

* * *

Come Thursday Erik is agitated. Much of that agitation is from looking at the cover of Sentimental Ink, which Raven placed on one of her pedestals. The remaining annoyance is the triumph of good business sense over his personal dislike of crowds. He’s never really cared for Last Thursdays and all the pageantry, off beat or not, it entails. For years Quicksilver has been blessedly far from Alberta Street, but every month the event gets bigger. As Incubator, Morpho, Triple Cha, Hammerpress, and other local businesses flourish around Quicksilver, the draw from Last Thursdays grows, too. Darwin in particular has been active in bringing in more business to the area as Morpho grows into one of Portland’s bustling activist hubs.

Darwin is as relentless as he is level-headed; most days Erik doesn’t hold that against him. Most days Erik can sit in the back room at Quicksilver and meditate without interruption. Unfortunately, most days Raven doesn’t have a show within Quicksilver to celebrate her ‘graduation’ to journeyman status that Darwin’s publicized.

Even though Erik had arrived at his usual early hour, their business line has buzzed with enough frequency that he’s spent the morning with his noise-cancelling headphones on and his phone playing an endless loop of rainfall with distant thunder. He’s even worn them through his daily meditation. By the time Raven comes in at 9am, the entire shop smells strongly of sandalwood and Erik is sitting on the floor of the gallery space, next to one of the pedestals. His pen scratches incessantly at the pad on his knees; capturing more elements of the work he’s doing for Charles.

Raven walks over to the factory window to his left and sets down her bag before crouching near him. Patiently, she waits for him to remove the headphones. Erik capitulates by moving one cup off his ear but leaves the other on.

“Bad morning?” she asks.

“I’ve gone over the bills, cleaned the shop, and loaded and unloaded the autoclave a couple times,” he admits. “I’m a little worried how Charles is going to react to your plan for tonight.”

“I don’t know,” Raven sighs and pulls at a strand of her recently re-dyed hair. “He’s chilling out a bit. Either way, though, I can’t live my life controlled by his outbursts. Even if Charles disapproves, I have to be honest with myself and that means expressing myself honestly with others. I don’t want to hide who I am anymore.”

“I know,” Erik says. “It’s your show. As long as nobody screws up the space and people stay out of the back room, it should be fine.”

She nods and then sets her chin lightly on her fingertips. “Erik, all these last-minute changes to the plan are rough on you. I know you hate surprises and some of the people coming piss you off. And maybe Charles _will_ flip out.”

He shakes his head. “I’ve planned for all that. I’m limiting my time in the gallery space and if Janos can’t handle Charles, I can probably get him away.”

Still crouched, Raven rocks back on her heels and nearly falls down in the process. With a roll of her eyes and an embarrassed smirk she leans forward again. “Yeah, about Janos.”

Erik breathes in a long breath of sandalwood-scented air in through his nose and focuses on the rainstorm rolling from his headphones. “Do I want to know?”

“Yep,” Raven says, serious once more. “Az should get here this morning and I don’t think he’s going to take to Charles. Charles would only be interested in Janos if he could get him as a fuck buddy, but Az might pick up on that. You know how jealous he is. So I don’t think Janos can help Charles. If Charles shows any interest, Az will be an asshole, Janos will get pissed, they’ll have a huge fight, and then we’ll have to kick them out of the loft because, despite Janos’ quietness, the makeup sex is damn loud.”

“Right.” It’s Erik’s turn to roll his eyes. The information comes with a strange loosening of his muscles that he doesn’t really understand, because without Janos or Raven to handle Charles that leaves only him. “If you’re asking me to babysit him for your big reveal, then yes, but you’re going to owe me a favor and cookies aren’t going to cut it.”

Her hands clench into fists and raise above her shoulders in victory. “Eriiik, thank you. In that case, I’ll talk to Az about being muscle for us if you have to take Charles back to the loft.”

Erik shakes his head. “No, if it comes to that I’ll take him to the back room.”

Again, Raven nearly tips back on her ass. Erik sees how her eyes grow and her jaw falls in surprise. He sees it and moves the headphone cup back over his ear. Even with the noise-cancelling headphones on he can hear her if she makes an effort, but she doesn’t make an effort to be heard.

“Check the messages, the phone’s been buzzing all morning,” he says, voice farther away than the rainstorm in his head. As he goes back to his shapes and bleeding ink, Raven stands halfway up. Her fingertips caress his hand as it moves over the page. Perhaps, he thinks, she’s as surprised as he is.

A few hours later, Xi’an shows up for her last appointment. When she asks what he’s listening to, he hands her the headphones. She smiles and asks him if they can listen to it while he works. Inwardly pleased with her choice, Erik queues it up on Quicksilver’s sound system.

* * *

Sunlight doesn’t wake Charles up Thursday morning, nor does Raven, but his bladder does, and it isn’t to be ignored. He rolls out of Raven’s bed and onto his bare feet on the cool wooden floor. As he stumbles hastily across the worn-smooth floorboards and for the door, he looks down in annoyance at the morning wood he feels distorting his boxers. Thankfully he’s not so hard that he won’t be able to take a piss, but it’s damn annoying if any of Raven’s friends are about.

Before venturing into the cavernous common area, Charles listens at Raven’s door for the sound of the shower or maybe Janos cooking. He can hear movement and the clink of cutlery and assumes it’s Janos; at this hour Sean should be at Nike. Well, no harm in Janos getting a glimpse of his potential in the event the handsome man breaks up with his terrifying Russian boyfriend. New York, Charles muses, would be a nice place to have more friends with benefits, especially a friend with looks and glamorous connections. Perhaps he can share his own plethora of connections with Janos, sex on the side or not. With that thought in mind, Charles walks out of Raven’s room and into the common area in just his boxers.

He’s greeted with the sight of Janos at the stove in his enticing white linen shorts and little else. However, the shorts aren’t nearly as pleasant a sight with another man’s dark hand gripping one half of Janos’ ass.

Charles stops where he is, suddenly uncertain of his path. The other man is tall, perhaps taller than even Erik (and when did Erik become his reference for height?) and stands facing Janos’ side so he can more easily rub an ice cube against a red blotch on the top of Janos’ trapezius. He’s been at it long enough that the cube is half-gone and a glistening rivulet of run-off is steadily running down Janos’ golden back and soaking into the shorts’ waistband. Perhaps that’s what the tall, goateed and blue-eyed man’s hand is playing with.

“You are Raven’s big brother?” The man says, neither looking away from Janos’ neck nor removing his hand from Janos’ ass. His accent is thick, but not at all unpleasant. Perhaps it’s a nod to his nickname, but the man is wearing nothing but black.

“Yes, Charles Xavier,” Charles replies, unsure of shaking hands as he normally would when both Azazel’s are full. “You must be… is it Azazel?”

Janos slaps Azazel’s hand away from his ass. At that, he takes both hands away and drops the ice cube in the sink. When he turns to Charles, his blue eyes are sharp, even if his expression hints at amusement. “That is correct.”

Charles isn’t quick to respond; his blood is running quietly cold at the sight of two prominent scars on Azazel’s sharp face. The longer of the two vertical scars bisects his left eyebrow and continues on his cheek; the other intersects the right side of mouth. Charles isn’t sure what could have made the two clean cuts.

Janos interjects again, this time in quiet and rapid Spanish. His words seem to have no effect on Azazel. Charles wonders if Azazel’s Spanish is as low level as his, but then Janos has never spoken to him in his native tongue.

“Would you give me just a moment,” Charles asks with an embarrassed expression and gesture toward the bathroom.

Azazel glances down at Charles’ shorts and then lifts his chin toward the bathroom, too. “Of course. We can do introduction after.”

“Excellent idea,” Charles lies and walks past.

Thankfully, any arousal the ice melting down Janos’ back may have brought has been firmly dismissed by Azazel’s territorial display; pissing becomes a breeze. For good measure, Charles takes a shower. He’d much rather clear his head and have a fresher feeling if he’s going to interact with Janos’ boyfriend. As much as he likes Janos, Charles doesn’t want the complications of navigating their relationship. He hopes Raven will be back soon, but if she isn’t he decides he’ll take a cab to Quicksilver’s neighborhood. If nothing else he can go to Morpho or visit the lingerie shop down the street that Raven shops at.

By the time he’s done with the shower Charles feels far better and more awake. He dries off with one of Raven’s towels, shaves, and fixes his hair, then wraps another around his waist to make the trip back to her room. Thankfully, the couple aren’t in the common area when he walks out; he can hear them speaking in Janos’ bedroom. However, on the dining table is a plate with cheese melted over toast and a coffee cup with a silicon hot pad sitting on top. Charles grins in the direction of Janos’ room and takes the mug and plate with him. Janos’ boyfriend might be a terrifying ass, but obviously Janos wasn’t going to let that get in the way of his sense of hospitality.

He eats his late breakfast and nurses the coffee as he gets dressed. Raven said that the show is informal so he gives that aspect a nod with a pair of jeans, but dresses the denim up with a blue button up, dark orange knit, and his favorite pair of Chelsea boots. When he’s satisfied with his reflection in Raven’s mirror, he retrieves his phone from its charger to send a message to Raven. He finds one already waiting for him.

_I’m at Quicksilver already! Janos and Az will bring you here later. If Az is being precious, you can take a cab or wait for Hank. Or I can pick you up before Erik’s 11am appointment. Let me know what you want to do!_

He smiles fondly at her message and types back; _Is Azazel his real name? And yes, very precious. I’ll order a cab._

After ordering the cab, Charles braves Azazel to let Janos know his plans and then heads downstairs to wait. For such a technologically progressive city, Charles finds the lack of taxi apps for Portland dismal as well as the lack of selection, but he makes do.

It’s almost one by the time he gets to Quicksilver and finds Raven in the gallery space. A wave of incense-scented air washes over him as he pulls back the solid door. Following it is the sound of rain and rolling thunder and an additional undercurrent of a buzzing tattoo machine. Charles wonders if Erik needs the calm as much or more than whomever he’s working with.

Just inside the gallery space, close to the short hall Charles traverses, Raven is talking on her phone. Judging by her absolutely sickening smile and conversation, it must be Hank. She gives him a wave and ends her call soon after he steps close.

“There’s an awful lot of New Age going on in here,” Charles comments. “Is Erik feeling particularly pissy?”

“He’s not good with crowds,” Raven admits, “and it’s going to get really crowded in here come eight o’clock. I asked him to stick close to you, but maybe it’s going to be better if you stick close to him. You could help take the spotlight off him.”

Charles nods thoughtfully. “I’d rather be near you, but I can see your point. Besides, he’s not as bad as I thought he was. He took my boxing instruction with a lack of ego I didn’t expect. That impressed me.”

“See,” she smiles and pushes her vibrant hair behind her ears, “you guys complement each other in a lot of ways.”

“We clash in more,” Charles deadpans.

“True,” Raven chuckles. Her expression changes then from light-hearted to a bit more serious. “I’m not going to be here much longer; I have to get a few things done for tonight. Do you mind hanging out in the area? Erik’s got nothing scheduled once he’s done with his current client if you guys want to discuss strategies for dealing with the coming crowd.”

Though Charles would much rather be with Raven on her big day, hanging around the neighborhood was one of the options he’d entertained anyway. “I can do that. Can I help _you_ at all? Are you picking up canapés or wine?”

“Morpho is catering,” Raven replies, looking down at her phone again. “Actually, Kitty’s supposed to bring us lunch pretty soon. You can talk to her if she needs help bringing the food up and Erik might let you help him with setting up the work area. He hates using it, but the gallery space isn’t big enough for a crowd so we use it for shows.”

The front door opens and the two turn to see Kitty coming through with two paper bags in her arms and a drink carrier in one hand. Her eyes crinkle and she chirps a greeting in Charles’ direction; Charles rushes forward and takes the bags from under her arms.

“Hey Charles,” she says brightly, “you look really nice. I like the blue and orange.”

“Why, thank you, Kitty.” He’d like to return the compliment but her hair is a little frizzy and her worn Morpho apron is covering most of her clothing. However, her jeans are rolled up and he can see she’s wearing a riotous pair of socks under battered Chucks. “Those are very colorful socks!”

She takes the bags Charles took from her and sets them down and unloads four drinks on the factory window sill. Then she begins pulling sandwiches from the bags. “Thanks! Raven gave them to me. And I’m wearing my Quicksilver shirt under my apron.”

“Did you wear them for me?” Raven asks, her expression immediately soft. Charles can only imagine the roller-coaster of emotions she must be going through today.

“Of course,” Kitty laughs. She rolls her eyes in embarrassment when Raven gives her a quick hug. “You and Erik’s shop shirt, your socks, and since today’s Xi’an’s big day, too, I’ll wear the jade bracelet she gave me later.”

“She’s almost done,” Raven says and gestures to the noren. “Why don’t you unpack all the food and I’ll check on them? Both of them are going to be starving.”

“Already on it,” Kitty replies, unpacking a few more paper parcels from the bag she took from Charles.

Curious, Charles helps Kitty by snagging plates from the cabinet above Quicksilver’s small refrigerator and bringing them back. “Erik’s working on a friend of yours?”

Kitty sets pickles wrapped with seasoned fries on one of the plates with three different containers of sauce. “Yep. It’s kinda a big deal for her.”

“Birthday?” Charles asks, thinking of the magazine Erik and Raven have been featured in; it’s about stories behind tattoos, after all and it sounds to Charles like Kitty’s friend has one. “Anniversary?”

Kitty looks up at Charles, her face serious and voice quiet without being a whisper. “Xi’an doesn’t like men. She has really good reasons for it, too.” She looks down at the food and pops the lids off the sauces. “She’d been wanting a ship tattoo and she wanted to face her hatred of men, so I introduced her to Erik.”

“But Erik’s so abrasive,” Charles scoffs. His voice might be too loud, but given the situation he allows himself the leeway. “Why would you do that?”

A quick roll of her eyes tells Charles that Kitty isn’t taking him too seriously. “Xi’an and Erik aren’t so different. But, yeah, Erik is a tall, intimidating kind of guy, right? Perfect for it, if you ask me. But actually, he’s all that on the outside and super idealistic and sensitive to justice on the inside.”

“Are we both talking about Erik Lehnsherr?” Charles asks. “I hardly see a man concerned with justice when I look at him.”

“You just don’t know him like we do,” Kitty replies. “My boss thinks Erik would be an amazing activist if he didn’t have so many hang ups. But, whatever, the main thing is that a tall, intimidating kind of guy who’s actually sensitive on the inside is perfect for Xi’an’s purposes.”

Charles doesn’t see it, but he nods along. If the girl is the victim of domestic violence or even rape, he can see where working with Erik like this could be a form of coping. It could be a little hair of the dog that bit her.

“Today’s her big day because today’s the last session,” Kitty continues. “This is her therapy; kind of a talisman. She’s been able to feel less threatened when there’s a lot of guys around since Erik started working on her.”

They both look up at the sound of Raven’s approach. “Less than five minutes and then Erik’s going to wrap it up. You waiting, Kitty?”

“Pffft, yeah,” she replies. “She’s one of my best friends; I’d be a real jerk if I couldn’t come around a corner and up some stairs for her on a day like this.”

Raven’s smile remains as she reaches for a plate and one of the sandwiches. “You’re a good friend, Kitty.”

“I try.” Kitty shrugs and grabs some of the potatoes and dunks them in one of the sauces. “The lunch rush wiped out the mock tuna so those are all mock egg. I hope that’s okay. All the cold drinks are chai, and the hot one is Erik’s decaf Americano. Oh, hey, can I take a copy of the magazine down to Triple Cha?”

“The lingerie store?” Charles chuckles and starts into their late lunch since his breakfast was relatively small. “Are they planning to have you model, Raven?”

“Sorta,” Kitty mumbles around a mouthful. “Erik used to model their line of men’s lingerie. Anne Marie…”

Kitty pauses to let Charles finish choking on his food. “Raven, how does your brother not know about Erik in corsets and fishnets? Is my gaydar malfunctioning?”

Raven’s answering laughter comes in peals. “Charles is multisexual! He’s like the Swiss Army knife of sexuality; he’s got something for every situation. But yeah, I guess because Erik stopped doing it? At least Janos still is; his pics nearly melt my face off.”

Charles coughs a bit more, but doesn’t correct Raven; he finds nothing to be ashamed of in her gleeful assessment. If anything he’s a bit proud.

“True,” Kitty nods. “And Janos kicks ass at the annual Incubator fashion show. He’s so professional.”

“Except that Az nearly went to jail that time those drunk trophy wives tried writing their numbers in Janos’ body paint.”

“Oh. Oh, yeah,” Kitty replies. “That was last year. Alex and Scott talked him down. Is Jean coming tonight? I thought I saw her stage name on one of the pedestals. Xi’an says seeing her light up her pasties is a religious experience.”

Charles only listens with half an ear; he’s still coughing a bit, but he’s already on his phone, opening up Triple Cha’s purple and cream website. It takes a little looking but he finds a familiar face in Triple Cha’s original line of men’s lingerie; it’s Janos in white and dove gray-striped, brocade hot pants, white garters, and white fishnet stockings. The white leather harness is definitely a plus.

“That’s this year’s winter collection. Erik was in last year’s winter and this year’s spring; he was supposed to be in summer or winter this time, but he changed his mind,” Raven says helpfully from over Charles’ shoulder. “Of course, you can always take Erik over to Triple Cha. I’m sure Anne Marie would be happy to show you the hard copies of the catalogues.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Charles murmurs.

“Hup,” Kitty says and waves her free hand between the siblings. “Buzzing stopped. Can I go back, Raven?”

“Nope.” Raven shakes her head to reinforce her command. “You wait like everyone else. You know Erik hates it when people go back there when he’s working. If he has to wrap her up, that counts as working.”

“You just went back,” Charles says to be difficult. He continues going through the men’s lingerie. It’s not something he ever took seriously. It makes him slightly uncomfortable to see it as anything other than a joke, but he can’t deny that it looks fetching. It seems strange, too, to think of Erik exposing himself.

“I just went back because I work here,” Raven says loftily. “Imagine that.”

“Yes, imagine.” Charles’ reply is absent at best. “Modeling seems out of character for Erik. I thought he didn’t like showing his tattoos?”

Next to Charles Kitty grimaces. “Well, Erik follows some Jewish laws even though he’s an atheist and tattoos are definitely against the law. When my mom found out about the shop she worried about me being friends with Erik. So she started saying things like tattooed Jews can’t be buried in Jewish cemeteries. It’s not true, but some people say that. There’s no telling what Erik’s family said to him. My mom tried grilling him, you know, about his family but he wouldn’t say anything. That’s not a good sign.” 

The new nugget of information opens Charles’ mind up to a new round of conjecture. Perhaps Erik covers his tattoos because it reminds him of his family? Surely they disapprove of his work. “That makes it even more unlikely that he’d model revealing clothing.”

“Or more proud to.” Raven shrugs and then drops her voice. “Erik knows he’s handsome, okay? He’s also rightly proud of his tattoos; most of them are collaborations he did with people he respects in the business. But the thing you’ve got to understand about tattoos is that sometimes stupid people feel compelled to touch them or comment on them. Erik doesn’t have the patience for that. And, much as we all love him, if somebody were to surprise him with a touch the results could be pretty bad.”

Two impulses run through Charles; on the one hand he’s sure that Erik would do violence to a person that touched him, but on the other, Raven isn’t shy about her tattoos. He drops his sandwich and spins to face her directly. “Raven, do people touch your tattoos?”

Her eyes roll and she sighs. “I don’t want to have this conversation with you today, Charles.”

“They do.” The thought of random strangers touching Raven is infuriating. How dare they touch his sister? Her life had been hard enough with their mother and stepfather, both emotionally and psychologically abusive and the latter physically threatening. It’s hard, so hard, to hold his tongue, but he’s been getting practice the past week or so. Today is her big day and she’s right not to want to have an argument on the threshold of her celebration.

Charles closes his eyes, latches onto the sound of rain and distant thunder, and brings his palms up and head down in capitulation. “We’ll revisit this later, when it’s more appropriate.”

When he opens his eyes again, Raven is staring at him in obvious surprise. “Did you just..? Did you just pass on a chance to belittle me?”

There’s nothing he would rather do than start into a lecture about how she continually gives him reasons why she shouldn’t be in this business. Strangers touching her is definitely a reason in league with all the other social, financial, and business problems her trade and her skin could bring her. Even with Kitty chewing her potatoes and glancing back and forth between them isn’t enough to hold him back, but he does. Just this once, he tells himself, just on her special day.

“I suppose Erik’s onto something,” he says, “with the incense and rain.”

“I’ll remember that.” Erik pushes the noren out of his way and holds it up for his Asian client; Kitty’s friend, no doubt. Her dark eyes brighten when she sees Kitty.

Kitty grabs one of the drinks and thrusts it out. “Chai! The homemade kind, not the boxed stuff. I made it extra sweet because I figured you need the sugar after three or four hours under the needle.”

The girl smiles and takes the drink. “Thanks Kitty. You want to see it?”

Kitty nods and laughs, her curly hair bounces with the movement and catches the light coming in from the window. “Of course I do! Wanna go over to the bathroom?”

The girl glances at Charles then between Raven and Erik. She sucks a long gulp of chai through her straw and then shakes her head. “Here’s fine.”

It’s Kitty’s turn to look surprised, though Charles commends her for stifling the expression as quickly as it had appeared. The girl puts down her drink and gathers her long grey tank top in her fingers and lifts it up from over her low-slung black leggings. Charles is surprised to see Erik hasn’t used anything to cover the fresh tattoo, but the work isn’t bleeding or oozing, either.

The artwork he sees is astonishing in its intricacy; Erik’s given life to a battleship around the girl’s waist. It’s both aggressive and somehow feminine with the way it conforms to her body; there’s even a tower of some sort that disappears under her bra, between her breasts. The bristling weaponry even gives the appearance of lace if looked at in the right way.

More surprising, when she turns around, he sees that the ship has neither prow nor stern; it’s an Escher loop of ship. Even if Erik had painted this piece, it would be impossible to frame or look at in a conventional manner. As she turns, the ship gives the impression of going on forever, as if it won’t stop even if she does. It’s brilliant on Erik’s usual technical level, but the sympathetic execution elevates it to a whole new level.

Looking at the tattoo with the knowledge that something tragic happened to the young woman, Charles sees how personal it is and what he thinks Erik was helping her to express. A nod to the femininity of a corset, the weaponry of a battleship, a ship that never sleeps; it’s a badge of honor.

And if Raven and Kitty are to be believed, Erik doesn’t know something terrible happened to her or the good deed he’s done. If Erik could do this for Kitty’s friend with only a nautical theme, what then could he do for Charles if he just gave him a hint? Maybe a tattoo could be more than a brand or an overly-revealing statement. If so, what good things could come of a design from Erik once he gave him a direction to work in? He wants to know, but he doesn’t think he wants to sacrifice his skin for the knowledge. 

* * *

Erik goes back into the work area and cleans everything up with a meticulousness that goes beyond the call of health standards. He leaves the sound system looping the rainstorm as he works. He only turns it off after he’s loaded the autoclave. When he walks out again there’s only Charles reading Sentimental Ink in the light of the factory window, the sun casting a golden crown along his wavy locks of chestnut hair.

It isn’t the first time Erik’s noticed Charles’ beauty, but he hasn’t grown accustomed to it yet, either. Beauty is something that he tries not to take for granted. For a few moments he observes Charles’ profile and catalogs the traits he hadn’t given as much notice to before.

For somebody that does a bit of boxing, Charles’ nose is surprisingly straight with a gentle slope where bone gives way to cartilage. It’s an elegant nose that leads up to furrowed brows and heavy eyelids. His eyes are very blue in the light, his pupils contracted to adjust to the sunlight coming in through the glass. Erik doesn’t think they’re Charles’ best feature, nor his sensual lips, because Erik’s eyes are always drawn down his torso to Charles’ legs. The denim he’s wearing is just fitted enough that the material conforms closely to each thigh.

“I’m going to start setting up,” Erik says by way of interruption.

“I’ll help.” Charles glances up from the magazine; his furrowed brow smoothes out into a contemplative expression. “This article makes it sound like you and Raven are the best of friends.”

It’s a strange thing to come out of the mouth of Raven’s brother. Erik can only think of one thing he might be thinking. “I told you, no doubt even Raven told you, we were never lovers. It was only the one time.”

Charles grimaces and shakes his head. “No, that’s not what I’m getting at all. I just want to know, is Raven your closest friend?”

It would be hard for the conversation to get further out of Erik’s comprehension. What kind of question is he asking? He nods. “Yes. Why?”

Charles lowers his head again to look at the magazine. He touches one of the photos. “Because I’ve never seen you smile like this. She has a gift for making people smile; I never really noticed it until now. I think she’s actually… very happy.”

Not a single word comes to Erik’s mind; all he feels is the overwhelming need for caution. Charles is an emotional person and that’s never been something Erik’s been good at predicting. The only emotion he has rock solid understanding of is anger. He says nothing and waits for an outburst.

“Is she happy, Erik?” Charles taps his finger on the page. “Is she really happy here? Happy with this terrible work and her brilliant but wishy-washy boyfriend?”

Erik doesn’t bother correcting Charles’ insult nor does he hold back. “I don’t know how she was when we met in New York, because she didn’t make an impression on me back then. But when she moved out here to learn from me, she was more determined than happy. Over time, though, she’s become the most positive element in my life.”

“She’s happy then,” Charles states.

“Far happier than she was at SVA.” He doesn’t go on to make any arguments about Charles’ obvious fine arts bias; if he won’t listen to Raven Erik doesn’t think he’ll start to listen to another ‘low brow’ artist, especially one that some people have taken to calling ‘Art Brute’. Not that he thinks that it isn’t a deserved title; he’s considered adding it to his skin.

Charles sighs and nods and gestures to a wrapped sandwich and a cup with hearts and flowers drawn all over it. “Why don’t you eat and have your coffee before it gets any colder?”

Rather than voice a reply, Erik allows his actions to agree for him by walking forward and joining Charles at the window. He pops the lid off the drink and takes a sip. The Americano is tepid. He doesn’t really want it even though Kitty’s touch means it’s a decaf; his appetite for coffee has diminished since he punched the wall in the bathroom. He sets the drink down and starts in on the sandwich left for him.

“It’s a flattering article,” Charles says, but Erik doesn’t look at the magazine.

“So I’ve heard,” he says between bites of mock egg salad. There are clouds out on the horizon, but he doubts there will be rain tonight. Pity.

“You haven’t read it?” Charles asks. He turns and raises one diabolical eyebrow at him. “Why not? Don’t like to read books with pictures? Do you think you’re too old for that?”

Erik lifts his head minutely in a small twitch of put upon amusement, but doesn’t reply; his mouth is blessedly too full for that. His lack of commentary doesn’t dissuade Charles at all.

“When I say flattering, I’m not referring just to the article, but the photos.” Charles flips through the pages. “The series they chose the cover photo from is excellent. You haven’t looked at all?”

Erik dodges a verbal reply by shaking his head.

Charles folds back the pages and holds up the magazine. Erik picks up the other half of his sandwich and stares at the tofu that’s masquerading as egg salad. It’s remarkably convincing tofu, maybe a little heavy on the mustard, but he likes the kind of mustard Darwin makes: full of seeds.

“I hear you used to model.”

Erik drops the sandwich back down on its wrapper and looks up at Charles, but Charles has placed the magazine between them. Instead of seeing Charles’ bright eyes looking back at him he sees his own. Without thinking, Erik knocks the magazine out of Charles’ hand and immediately regrets having put down the sandwich. Had his hand been holding something maybe he wouldn’t have done that.

The magazine drops to the floor and lays in a sprawl of bent pages. Charles looks down at it and then up at Erik. “I think you know you’re very handsome, Erik, so I’m not sure why you don’t like the magazine? Raven let slip that you used to do a bit of modeling. That’s a little odd.”

“You don’t want to play this game with me again, Charles,” Erik says. He can feel it coming, the edges of heat that play havoc with his good sense. “You think you do, but you’ll find it’s a game neither of us will win.”

“Like Multnomah and the Rose garden?” Charles crouches and picks up the magazine. He places it, miraculously, cover down on the window sill. Erik can’t read his expression, but he thinks Charles is going for neutral. If Charles is smart, he thinks, he’ll just shut up, but there’s no chance of that.

“I wish we could talk about this,” he says and runs a hand through his hair. “But we’ve both buggered things up. Look, Erik, you make Raven happy. The pictures in the magazine show her with such a smile on her face. I suppose I want to somehow understand how you did that. The more cynical side of me thinks she’s happy with her enabler, but I think maybe she’s honestly happy. It might be temporary, but it seems so real.”

Erik looks at the back of the magazine; the back page has an advert for a tattooed singles introduction service. Grimacing, he looks up at Charles. “What more do you want me to say? I’ve said everything I have to on this topic. Raven’s happy. She loves her work, her life here, and her boyfriend. The only things that appear to trouble her are family-related.”

“What about you, Erik?” Charles says quickly, “What troubles you?”

Erik draws his head back and his back straight until he’s leaning slightly away from Charles. There’s been an unwritten rule between them that has rarely been traversed. It’s a rule that Erik remains true to even the few times he could have bent it in order to help others. He doesn’t ask people about their pasts because he doesn’t want to reveal his own. He doesn’t ask and he makes it obvious whenever needed that questions like this aren’t acceptable.

“You mean with tonight?” Erik asks with exaggerated slowness. “I don’t like crowded places. I don’t like people I don’t know, or that I know but don’t like, in my space. But I knew what would happen when I decided to let Raven have a celebratory show. It’s my doing and that makes it tolerable.”

Charles shakes his head. “You’re intentionally misunderstanding me.”

“You’re intentionally baiting me,” Erik hisses. His lip lifts into a sneer. Does Raven’s brother never quit? Is he the type to poke sticks at caged animals?

“Okay, maybe you’re not.” Charles frowns. “I just… I just find it interesting that you used to model and I’m wondering why that changed. Normally I wouldn’t care, but for some reason it bothers me. Perhaps because Raven used to struggle so much with her appearance.”

The fury of before falters as Erik watches Charles wrestle with words. He wonders if Charles is so accustomed to spouting bullshit that when it comes to real emotions he has a horrible time trying to articulate himself. And then Erik wonders if Charles is actually trying to reach out to help him.

“Ah,” Charles says, now staring at the back of the magazine. Erik watches him flinch and frown when he twigs to what he’s looking at. “Well, then. You shouldn’t worry, Erik, you’re exceptionally attractive. Not that appearance is the most important trait in a human being’s repertoire, but it certainly helps, evolutionarily speaking, to attract a mate. Your personality is terrible, so it’s good, very good really, that your looks are so appealing.”

Erik can’t help it; he stares at Charles. This has taken several quick steps away from the infuriating into the absurd and he’s not sure how to react to it. Charles can turn some genius turns of phrase; when he’s in his comfort zone his charm and wit ascend great heights. But when he’s flustered his words crumble and he appears to think aloud, without filter.

“Oh, God,” Charles whines, “this is the opposite of what I’m trying to say.”

“You’re saying it’s a good thing I’m so attractive,” Erik summarizes, “because my terrible personality would normally prevent me from getting laid. Are you chatting me up, Charles? Because this is, without doubt, the worst job any one has ever done of chatting me up.”

Charles closes his eyes and raises his face to the ceiling in defeat. “I’m not trying to chat you up right now; I’m trying to pay you a compliment, but I keep saying horrible things that, even though they’re true and I’m disinclined to apologize for them, totally negate the attempted compliment.”

By the time Erik sorts the statement out, his anger is snuffed, he’s still staring, but his sneer has turned into a different kind of lifting of lip. He’s smiling slightly in amusement. “Okay then, I’ll give you a chance to save it.”

Charles opens his eyes and looks at Erik before lowering his head again. “That’s unexpected.”

“Very,” Erik agrees. He drops the smile and asks, “What’s my best feature?”

Charles blinks and his lips part slightly in surprise, but then he smiles and gestures to the magazine. “Let me show you. Just one picture and then you never have to look at this ever again.”

Erik tightens his jaw and narrows his eyes, but gives Charles a stiff nod. “Fine.”

Charles flips through the pages swiftly and turns them back the moment he finds the photo and slaps the magazine back down on the window sill. He taps one of the photos with such force that he turns out a little percussive line from the sun-warmed windowsill. “Look here.”

Erik steps forward and inclines his head to look down at the photo Charles has under his fingertip. Most of the photo is taken up by Raven’s laughing face; it’s strange to see her with the blonde hair now that he’s gotten used to the vermilion. She has one of her tattoo machines disassembled and he’s standing next to her timing her, but his face is out of focus with the shot zoomed in tight on Raven’s face.

“It’s blurry,” Erik states. “Are you saying I’m only attractive to drunks?”

“No,” Charles says and taps the photo again for emphasis. “Look at her smile. You did that. That’s your best feature; making my sister laugh or smile. I haven’t seen her so carefree in years; it’s like she’s blossomed since she left New York. If you hadn’t accepted and mentored her, I’m not sure she would be this happy.”

The confession catches Erik unprepared. He had expected Charles to list the usual features; his eyes, his height combined with his broad shoulders, even his jaw. The bolt strikes true; he looks at the page between Raven’s laughing face and his own real smile, and he can’t remember any moment in the last ten years that he’s made anyone that happy.

He hadn’t known, hadn’t recognized his effect on Raven at all. Of all people, it _should_ be her brother to point it out, but at the same time, Charles is the last person he expected anything positive from and this is overwhelmingly positive.

The anger waits in the wings, but there’s something wholly alien writhing in Erik’s chest now. It’s foreign, ugly, and unwelcome; it burns his eyes and makes a knot of itself in his throat. That alone calls the heat forward, but the heat that comes isn’t the usual kind; this heat suffuses his cheeks rather than his chest. It doesn’t cast a film of red over his vision, though it makes it hard to see. He doesn’t feel the high that comes from the unmitigated power of rage, he feels a strange sort of weakness.

When he sees the drop of water that appears on the page, he is shocked, he’s somewhat horrified at the second, and then amazed by the third, because this is something he no longer thought he could do. Erik reaches up to touch his face, to confirm that, yes, it’s wet. Even so, he turns to Charles who looks bewildered, for confirmation that it’s really happening. Charles’ confusion and his hands, poised to touch but hesitant to bridge the gap, confirm it.

Erik grasps the magazine and turns it over. He braces himself on the windowsill and lets his head fall back and the tears slip across his cheeks. For the first time in longer than he cares to remember, he thinks it’s possible he isn’t the animal he’s believed in all these years. He tastes his tears through a fleeting smile.


	11. Masterpiece

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Even if it makes other uncomfortable, I will love who I am."  
> Janelle Monáe, _Q.U.E.E.N_
> 
> Raven reveals her greatest work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger warning.** Charles says something vile about somebody with a congenital anomaly.
> 
>  
> 
> On a lighter note: [Astasia painted an amazing image of Erik!](http://astasia.tumblr.com/post/99991600860) It's an incredibly breath-taking image! (It's a nude, but mostly SFW.) Thank you again, Astasia!

_Masterpiece_

Raven and Hank haven’t shown up yet, nor have either of her roommates. There’s plenty of time, of course, but the reception opens at 7pm and doors close at 8pm for an artist’s statement that Raven has said shouldn’t take much time. It isn’t that Charles misses Raven, it’s only been a few hours, but he desperately wants her there to help with something that isn’t at all show-related.

Charles’ mind isn’t on the men and women that have arrived early as living works of art. They are a bevy of lovely people for the most part, but he doesn’t take time to appreciate their bodies or faces. It comes as only a small surprise that most of Raven’s special guests are gloriously witty. His charm serves him well on autopilot as he imparts Raven’s instruction to the letter. Laughter comes easily to him even if his mind is elsewhere.

One of the women, Jean ‘Phoenix’ Grey, is a beautiful specimen of curves, red hair, and a titular phoenix that wraps around her body; it sends one wing down the back of her leg and the other up her arm to the wrist. Raven has given Charles special instructions to intervene if Jean and Erik get into an argument. Apparently Erik had made some kind of horrible commentary concerning her husband and one of her old flames fucking out their differences not long before she finally tied the knot. Charles doesn’t blame her for holding a grudge, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t find the commentary amusing.

At half past six, Quicksilver’s front door is momentarily locked so Raven’s guests are comfortable changing out of their street clothes for clothes that will display their tattoos. Jean and Anne Marie, one of the owners of Triple Cha, are both starlets of the Pacific Northwest’s burlesque circuit and have opted for their stage outfits complete with huge ostrich feather fans and pasties. The third member of their group is also part of the burlesque circuit, a man mostly remarkable for his New Orleans accent and eerie, black corneas.

There have been no disruptions, which Charles mourns; he loves Raven and he wants her show to go well, but he would prefer more of a distraction from the thoughts turning over and over, inside and out, in his head. He doesn’t want to think about how he has peered inside Erik’s iron chrysalis and seen something a great deal softer than he had imagined.

In the work space Erik busies himself sabotaging Sean’s carefully curated mixes and instead sets the sound system with a playlist of haunting, experimental piano pieces. When he’s done fiddling with the system’s settings, he sits in the railroad tie wall’s alcove with his back to the gallery and his bare feet braced on his desk inside the work space. So far, even though Erik has Raven’s journeyman tattoo, he’s the only one present with Raven’s work that isn’t in a state of partial undress.

Kitty and Darwin’s partner, Alex, have come and gone with a beautiful arrangement of bread, fruit, vegetables, and hummus which they set up in the work room. Darwin stopped in later with a magnum of champagne meant as a gift.

Charles has fired text after text to Raven asking her status but she hasn’t replied. He hopes this means she’s en route, because he doesn’t really know what to do with Erik.

So it is, with more relief than he thought possible, that he hears a knock on Quicksilver’s door and finds Janos and Azazel on the other side of it. Charles doesn’t feel any of the awkwardness from that morning as he unlocks and opens the door to let the two within.

“People are changing clothes right now,” Charles tells them, “so why don’t you wait here just a bit?”

Janos smiles and shakes his head, but it is Azazel that replies. “Maybe all the guests have seen Janos naked, so no reason to stand out here. Eh, Yanochka?”

Janos rolls his eyes disapprovingly and hits Azazel’s stomach with the back of his hand.

Charles’ jaw drops a bit at the interaction. A modicum of his usual cheekiness wants to assert that Charles hasn’t seen Janos naked yet. Instead he gives Azazel a polite smile and a firm shake of his head. “Maybe so, but I don’t know how comfortable they would be with you seeing them naked.”

Janos laughs quietly, eyes crinkling at the corners. “It’s you they don’t know.”

Maybe Charles has been along to so many theatrical cast parties that the nudity hasn’t affected him, but it dawns on him that, yes, Janos is right. Charles might be Raven’s brother but that doesn’t make him any less of a stranger. He steps away from the door. “You have a point.”

“And you have balls,” Azazel chuckles, letting Janos precede him. He doesn’t look any less intimidating, but he doesn’t appear to be trying to be menacing, either. “Where is Lehnsherr?”

Charles gestures down the hall; from the door the alcove is a straight shot and Erik’s back clearly visible. “He’s in a mood. I think he needs space.”

Azazel snorts a puff of breath. “This is not a mood, this is personality. I will remind him that it will be over in a few hours.”

The logic seems sound; Charles wishes he’d have thought of it. “Excellent idea.”

At the end of the long entry Janos heads to the left to join Jean, Anne Marie, and a few others while Azazel walks further, through the doorway to the work room. He’s smart, Charles realizes, to avoid approaching Erik from behind. He wonders what kind of friendship the two have, if any at all.

Behind him he hears the door open again. Charles drops all thoughts to send the newcomer away, but the newcomer is Hank and he’s holding the door for Raven.

“Thank God.” A surge of relief rushes through Charles as he lays eyes on her; she’s exactly who he needs to talk to. Yes, it’s her big night, but how is he supposed to deal with Erik like he said he would if he doesn’t know how?

Raven blinks at him in surprise. “What’s wrong? What happened? Did Jean and Erik get into it?”

“No no no,” Charles blurts. “I only wish. Can we have a private chat? Five minutes?”

Raven peers past him at all the activity in the room and looks back at Hank. “Hey, do you mind going in or waiting here for five?”

Hank nods and reaches out to take her duffle bag from her. “I’ll go in and tell everyone that you’ll be in there in a second. I’m putting your bag in the bathroom.”

Charles watches Raven give Hank a nonverbal thank you and then rise up on her toes to give him a kiss on the cheek. “I don’t deserve you.”

Charles thinks it’s the other way around, but forgets much more than that as Raven takes his hand and pulls him out into the hall and to the creaky, wooden stairs that lead to the vacant third floor. On the landing between the two floors she releases his hand and turns to him. There’s something distracted or distant in her expression, but he puts that aside.

“Something happened,” he says and Raven nods.

“Yeah, obviously,” she replies. “Are you having anxiety? I know one of the guys in the studio has some meds if it’s an emergency or I can call Kitty or Alex for some chamomile tea. If it’s really bad I can have Erik take you back to the loft.”

“No,” Charles huffs. “No, it isn’t me, it’s Erik. I was trying to pay him a compliment and, I don’t know, Raven, I don’t know. He…” Charles pauses. Is it really right to tell Raven this? Would he want Erik to tell Raven if their situation were reversed?

Raven sighs. “Jesus, Charles, I asked you to take care of him for me not antagonize him.”

“He wasn’t angry,” Charles says in swift defense. “I thanked him. I thanked him for helping you and— ” Charles stops again before he can compromise Erik’s privacy. He knows he wouldn’t want somebody to tell Raven if it had been him crying. It seems if he’s going to talk to anyone about the issue it has to be Erik. It’s just a hard thing to do when Erik is a minefield far more vast and densely weaponized than Raven. “You know, actually, never mind. It can wait. Let’s talk about it tomorrow.”

“Okay, but if it’s really serious maybe we should work it out now, because guests are going to start arriving soon and I don’t want Erik to be on a hair trigger.” Raven’s brow furrows as her eyebrows try to close their gap. Though distant before, she now looks oddly earnest and that, for reasons Charles can’t comprehend, disturbs him. She takes his hand once more and gives it a squeeze but doesn’t let go immediately. “Tonight’s going to be really busy, so I probably won’t get to talk to you much, but don’t forget I love you, okay?”

“Of course I know you love me, silly girl. Could you just check with Erik when you go inside?” Charles hates being this uncertain but his charm doesn’t do well with Erik where Raven’s usually does. “If he’s fine, give me a thumb’s up and I’ll take my place as his buffer.”

She pulled him up the stairs and now she leads him back down. “Oh my God, Charles,” she says, her smile flitting around the corners of her mouth. “What has the world come to when I’m helping you with interpersonal relationships?”

“Apocalyptic, I know.” Charles navigates the stairs, his gaze on her hand as they go. It feels good to be touched, but he hates being directed and pulled around like this, like he doesn’t have complete control of his own life. He allows it, because he knows he has yet to learn how to deal with Erik; Raven appears to be the master of that unpredictable storm.

She releases him to open the door for them. “End of the world is maybe a bit strong.”

“Perhaps,” Charles says with an unaffected sniff. “I’ll lock the door if you want to see to himself.”

“If Az doesn’t have him.” She shrugs as she walks through. “That might be two wrongs making a right.”

With quick motions, Charles closes and locks the door as he said he would and then looks over his shoulder, down the entryway. Raven is headed for the workspace, there’s no need for her to move the noren as she enters since Erik removed it to indicate the workspace is open. He can see Azazel standing next to Erik’s laptop which Erik hooked up to the sound system earlier. Erik’s back doesn’t particularly betray any tension and Azazel seems to be carrying on a conversation with him. It annoys Charles a little, that somebody as rough as the Russian is able to speak effortlessly with both Janos and Erik.

At the thought a little twist turns his stomach. This whole time he’d been thinking it might be nice if Janos and Azazel broke things off, because who wouldn’t want to have sex with the Spaniard? But if Janos’ eventual relocation to New York set the two apart, would Azazel seek out Erik? Surely not.

Charles doesn’t fancy himself a jealous man, not by a long shot. He’s had his share of single and not-so-single lovers and he’s maintained monogamous relationships with people that weren’t being monogamous with him, but the idea of Azazel, who is clearly a shady character, to potentially have both men when Charles hasn’t even had one? It bothers him in ways that he knows are both petty and terribly uncharacteristic.

“Everything okay?”

Charles startles; he never even noticed Hank walk up the hall to him. “Christ, Hank. You gave me a start.”

Hank smiles sheepishly and crosses his arms. “You’d be the first. I’m not exactly known for my stealth, you know.”

Charles runs a hand through his hair even though he knows he shouldn’t and then looks up at Hank. “I was thinking.”

“I could see that,” Hank says quietly. “But you had this kind of… intense look on your face. I don’t want to intrude on your private conversation with Raven or anything, I just wondered if you’re okay?”

“How kind of you,” Charles drawls and an acidic retort is already loading up on his tongue, but at the last moment he turns from vitriol to common sense. “How well do you know Azazel?”

The question seems to surprise Hank; he glances toward Azazel and back again. “Not too well. I don’t know what Janos sees in him. Then again, I don’t know much about Janos, either. To tell the truth, I’m a little relieved Janos is moving to New York if it means Azazel will come around less; Azazel does security for container ships that travel the Northern Sea Route and the North Atlantic lane. In regard to the Northern Sea Route we’re talking Russian nuclear-powered, ice-breaker ships that usually carry oil. That worries me a little.”

“Say no more,” Charles says. He knows exactly what Hank is hinting at so clumsily and the scars on Azazel’s face hint at that far more clearly and succinctly. “I suppose this sort of thing goes with the tattoo subculture. Does he have tattoos?”

“I don’t know,” Hank says. “Raven’s never worked on him and I’ve never seen him without long sleeves or even without socks; not even when the five of us went to the beach. Always dresses in black. If he has tattoos only Janos would likely know. Maybe Erik, if Erik’s worked on him. Somehow I doubt it; he doesn’t do gang tattoos.”

“Thank you, Hank.” Charles murmurs in response. He pulls his attention from what has become a conversation between three; Raven, Azazel, and Erik. Charles takes a small step away from Hank so he doesn’t have to crane his neck to look up at him and clears his throat even though he knows he already has Hank’s undivided attention. With Raven diverted he can get his previously-planned conversation with Hank out of the way.

“You know, Hank, Raven’s had a couple disastrous relationships.” He feels a right hypocrite for starting that way, but he consoles himself that it’s necessary to get his point across. “But she appears very happy with you and you seem, at least so far, to treat her like lady.”

Hank’s arms, if anything, look like they’re crossing even harder. He lifts one arm so he can push his glasses back and then retracts it quickly. “Is this the big brother talk? I guess it’s a good sign to get that.”

“Shut up.” Charles decides, sod it, he’s getting in Hank’s space for this and moves right up to him. He stares through Hank’s glasses and into his eyes. “Treating my sister like a lady isn’t the bare minimum. The bare minimum is telling your parents to fuck off when they disapprove of her. It’s defending her when boys cat call her on the streets no matter how scared you are. It’s cutting off your arm rather than seeing her cry. The bare minimum is loving her so much you’d rather spend the rest of your days without her if it would benefit her in the long run. Do I make myself perfectly clear, Mr. McCoy? I will accept nothing less from you but that bare minimum.”

Though Hank slowly lost ground to Charles’ hushed tirade, he presses forward surprisingly fast the moment Charles pauses. His arms are still crossed tight and pressed against his chest as he says, “If I couldn’t do any of those things, I wouldn’t be here today. She’s amazing and I’m lucky. I calculated the chances that I would meet anyone like her and the results were humbling. I’d do anything for her. She’s already made me a better man and I’m only going to get better.”

“But if you’re not the right person for her,” Charles presses, taking a solid stance, “you’ll leave her, yes? If you aren’t good enough you’ll let her go.”

Hank backs up again and shakes his head slowly and without looking away from Charles. “Raven always tells me that as far as you’re concerned nobody will ever be good enough. Maybe I’m not. But if nobody’s good enough, then you’d really rather she always be alone?”

The words are there and he only has to open his mouth and give them air to give them life, but Charles shakes his head right back. “Bare minimum, Hank.”

He cuts off Hank’s attempt at a reply with a swift hand gesture and walks straight past and into the gallery space on his way to Quicksilver’s workspace. The damning words he wants to say ricochet repeatedly through his head, _She’ll never be alone as long as she has me._

* * *

When Charles comes into the work space, Erik is closing his sketchbook in order to shoo Raven and Azazel away. He thinks they’re trying to give him something familiar to alleviate the irritation with all the people in the shop, but what he really wants is more time to parse what happened to him earlier with Charles. However, that isn’t going to happen tonight, if ever.

Erik sighs and slaps the sketchbook down on the desk with an air of finality. “Raven, I’m fine. It’s your show so go oversee it. I’ve done my part and I’ll handle this the same way I have the past few gallery openings we’ve done.”

“Okay, I just know your temper,” she replies and glances at Charles. She tosses her brother a cavalier thumbs up. “I’m going to make sure Jean and the others have everything they need. Az, we won’t really need you until people start showing up.”

Azazel shrugs and turns to walk away. “I will wait by your door, maybe go outside to smoke.”

“If you’re going to talk to Jean, tell her I don’t want her to so much as light a lighter in here,” Erik says to Raven as Azazel walks away.

Unsurprisingly, Raven rolls her eyes. “Erik, she knows. When are you going to let that go? It was a freak accident.”

“I’m not talking about her wardrobe malfunction,” Erik snorts, “but if it really was an accident that should underline the importance of fire safety in the building.”

“I can’t believe you.” Raven turns to Charles, “Please somehow find that legendary charm of yours and use it on this impossible man; I’ve got to go talk to people and get ready for the opening.”

“I think we’ve established that my charm has the opposite effect on Erik.” Charles sends his patented charming smile Erik’s way, but Erik can see that his heart isn’t really in it. They’ve been walking on eggshells with each other all afternoon even though Erik told him not to worry about the strange incident.

Raven gives Charles a quick peck on the cheek and says, “You two play nicely.”

Charles takes her hand before she can escape and squeezes it, but, oddly enough, says nothing at all. Raven turns her hand in his and curls her fingers around his for a moment before heading out.

By himself Erik has had a tense, if productive, time. With Charles added to the equation it drops straight back into bizarrely awkward. Erik doesn’t usually feel awkward around people; awkwardness, as far as Erik thinks of it, is a product of insecurity or loss of confidence. Both are things he usually doesn’t succumb to except when it comes to his anger. What Erik thinks Charles might have given him earlier is hope and that isn’t something that he thinks should make him feel awkward, either.

“Are you feeling better?” Charles asks when haunting piano music is no longer enough to fill the silence.

“I don’t know how to answer that,” Erik admits. “I’m not good at introspection.”

That prompts another smile, this one looks more genuine to Erik. “Well, I’m actually an expert at it, but I’m afraid I often overcomplicate the process to better stimulate my mind.”

“Perhaps more than your mind.” Erik shakes his head at that, but it’s rueful, not negative. “You surprised me earlier today.”

Charles looks away through the alcove and into the gallery where Raven’s guests are now getting specific instructions from Raven. “I’m sorry about that. Truly. I intended to compliment you, not… not whatever that was. I wanted to thank you for taking in my sister when she refused to let me. You’ve been better for her than I want to accept.”

“I told you not to worry about it.” Erik slips feet first from the alcove, over his desk, and slides into a standing position behind the desk’s chair. Charles’ eyes turn to him and watch as Erik takes his sketchbook and slips it into the desk. “You reminded me of something I didn’t know I still had.”

Charles looks away again, but then slowly moves his gaze up until he makes eye contact. There’s something in Charles expression, a sort of fragility, which fills Erik with something akin to dread. “Did your heart grow three sizes today?”

Erik blinks at him. “What?”

The expression changes to disbelief. “You know, the Grinch?”

Erik can’t help but smirk at that. “You mean the one that stole Hanukkah?”

“Oh bloody hell,” Charles winces. “I thought all kids watch Dr. Seuss.”

Erik huffs a brief laugh and nods. “I watched it a few times when I was a kid. I liked the Grinch. Felt bad for his dog, though.”

The answer brings a smile to Charles’ face, one so disturbingly earnest and broad that Erik finds it distinctly disproportionate to the situation. “Raven and I hated the Grinch, but that’s not important. I was just wondering if you’re feeling more comfortable now about taking off your shirt?”

Erik still feels like Charles is inordinately pleased about something, but brushes the notion aside in favor of the more important issue of the night. “A friend made a shirt for me to wear to show just Raven’s tattoo, but I’ve been thinking about not using it.”

Erik turns to the long counter that spans from the railroad tie wall to the brick wall behind it and retrieves the soft black fabric Anne Marie gave him. He unfolds the one-sleeved shirt and smoothes it out flat over the desk. “It seemed like a good idea at the time, but now I don’t know.”

“You don’t have much time to make a decision, do you?” Charles leans over and touches the shirt’s hem. “I think it would look better if it was sleeveless.”

Erik nods and stares mutely at the shirt. Charles dresses well, so Erik gives him the benefit of doubt about what looks good on another man or not.

“Would you like a bit of help making the decision?”

Erik glances down at Charles and sees no malice or mischief in his face. What happened to him? He’s like a completely different person. If not for the presence of his usual body language, Erik would wonder if he had an identical twin. Did Kitty say something to him? Perhaps Raven or even Azazel? Or is he just feeling ashamed of making a grown man cry? Erik doesn’t know, can’t figure it out, and doesn’t have time for it anyway.

“I don’t see why not,” Erik shrugs.

“Good man,” Charles replies and claps Erik’s shoulder. “Take off your shirt.”

Erik nods again and complies, pulling his charcoal Quicksilver shirt off by tugging it up from his back and dragging it over his head. He tosses it over the back of the desk’s chair and looks to Charles for his next instruction. Of course, true to habit, he finds Charles staring at his chest. They’re close enough that Charles’ eyes move to track a cyclical course back and forth between Erik’s chest and shoulder, betraying his continued fascination with Raven’s journeyman tattoo.

“Well?” Erik prompts.

Charles’ eyes snap guiltily to Erik’s face. “Ah, right.”

Charles reaches into the pocket of his too-expensive-to-be-casual jeans and, to Erik’s irritation, retrieves his phone. As Charles has been acting better than decently of late, Erik counts backwards from three rather than make any accusations.

“I’m going to take two pictures of you,” Charles explains as he unlocks his screen and presumably opens up his camera app. “One with the shirt and one without. I think looking at photos helps me make more impartial decisions when I’m not sure about an outfit. I feel more emotional when I look at a mirror.”

It sounds rational enough so Erik acquiesces; he straightens up and squares his shoulders for the shot. “As long as you delete the pictures afterward.”

Charles holds his phone up and smiles. “Of course; these are just to serve a single purpose.”

It doesn’t take long for Erik to change and for Charles to take both shots: once they’re done, Erik leaves the one-sleeved shirt on and joins Charles to see the results.

Charles drags the photos back and forth as Erik looks over his shoulder. “I’m partial to the shirtless picture. Yes, it does show your body off a bit and maybe that distracts from the piece, however, even this one-and-a-half sleeved shirt of yours can’t conceal the tattoos around the heart or on your upper back. I say all or nothing. What do you think?”

As much as Erik dislikes looking at his own picture, rationally he thinks Charles is correct. Irrationally, though, he doesn’t like what he sees and doesn’t want to be shirtless for the night. But Erik is good at denying himself.

“I agree,” he says and peels off the half sleeve and then the black shirt. Absently, he folds the garment and drops it into the same drawer with his sketchbook.

“Besides,” Charles says with what Erik takes as an encouraging smile, “there’s going to be so much skin on display here that it isn’t like anyone is going to notice.”

Erik snorts softly at that, because Charles doesn’t know the half of it; there are several reasons the reception is twenty-one and over. A party with alcohol and skin in a tattoo shop, especially one he owns, has to be as cautious an affair as possible.

“What time is it?” Erik asks since Charles has his phone in his hand.

“Five ’til. Best get ready for your special guests.” Charles tucks the phone away. “I’m curious what kind of people will be coming.”

“Mostly locals.” Erik shrugs. “I should put on some shoes or something. The floors are going to take forever to clean in the morning with all the foot traffic we’re expecting tonight.”

It’s something of a surprise that Charles trails along beside him as he goes to the front door even more that Erik finds he doesn’t really mind. It shouldn’t be surprising, he reasons, considering the first time he even laid eyes on Charles he wanted a piece of him. As he passes by Jean glances at him but doesn’t miss a beat telling Raven how much she loves all the color in Scott’s recent tattoo.

Az is standing outside the door with Janos. They make a terrible set of doormen; mostly silent Janos is attractive enough but isn’t the least bit inviting if he doesn’t want to be. Az is naturally intimidating and finds the fear he inspires in most people to be one of life’s great amusements. At a club they could work, but for Raven’s show they’re only passable because people know them. So it’s no great wonder that the few early birds they have aren’t even on the stairs; they’re loitering down on the sidewalk.

Erik slips on his thong sandals when Charles opens the door and steps out with the couple. He glances up curiously when Charles looks down the stairs, wondering if Charles intends to engage the few people waiting.

Charles glances at his phone’s face and then turns back to Erik. “Want to let people in four minutes early?”

Erik shakes his head instantly. “No. I’d change my mind if starting four minutes early made it all end four minutes early.”

Azazel chuckles at that and Janos smiles. It occurs to Erik that Janos is overdressed for the event in one of his silvery-gray suits, but then Az is always in some black, mandarin-collared suit. Erik knows that Janos’ vanity doesn’t allow for his rough boyfriend to out-dress him.

Charles, however, looks down at his phone again, a small but honest smile on his lips. “Would you mind terribly asking Raven? You said it’s her show.”

Maybe two days ago Erik would have ignored Charles or taken offense, but in the strange bubble that Thursday afternoon has been, Erik turns around and goes back down the hall.

“Raven,” he calls, “Charles wants to know if you want to let people in four minutes early. I already said no.”

She turns from Jean with an amused grin. “Are you sure he isn’t just distracting you while he invites everyone up?”

Erik jerks his head to look behind him: Charles is watching from the other side of the leaded glass. “He doesn’t appear to be.”

“It’s just four minutes, Erik.” Raven doesn’t stop smiling.

“I wouldn’t set a precedent,” Jean says from her perch, sitting atop her pedestal. She has her extravagant, gold frame sitting on her knees. “Better to open late than early. Besides making people a little hungry is good for them.”

“It’s probably only two or three minutes now anyway.” Raven leans her shoulder against the wall next to Jean. “I’m going to be on the floor for about half an hour and then I need another half hour to do my make-up for my artist statement.”

“Half an hour?” Jean asks. “Are you sure you don’t want me to help you with it?”

Erik leaves the two of them to discuss makeup and heads back down the hall to the door. Charles is wearing a smug grin when he gets there; he opens the door just as Erik arrives and holds his phone’s screen out to him. There’s only a minute left.

“Did you just distract me for three minutes?” Erik asks.

“Maybe.” The grin deepens.

“Ah, Erik-baiting,” Azazel’s smile is the wicked variety. “It has been some time since we played, eh Yanochka?”

There are three simultaneous reactions: Charles shakes his head and says, “Don’t start” at the same time as Erik while Janos brings a single finger up and presses it firmly to the center of Azazel’s lips. Even if only Charles laughs out loud at the incident, he certainly isn’t the only one that is enjoying the moment. Erik notes that only Azazel chuckles when he takes Janos’ hand away and briefly kisses his brown knuckles. “A little Janos-baiting, too.”

Erik assumes it’s the sound of Charles’ laughter that draws the growing crowd of people at the foot of the stairs forward; Azazel’s chuckle is never inviting. One of the crowd, a familiar face though no name comes to Erik’s mind, asks if he’s opening the doors. Erik nods. “We’re open.”

He pulls the door open and uses the shop’s inherited decorative vase to pin it back to the wall. It’s been weeks since they’ve had a proper rain, but Raven’s MoMA umbrella remains within the vase-cum-doorstop. Erik is happy for that; the first and last time he’d hung up the umbrella and used the vase like this he’d wound up with a vase full of trash. The subsequent burst of temper had nearly cost him the door’s ancient leaded glass.

Erik draws back, Charles once more at his side, as he walks back to the gallery space to announce, “The door’s open.”

* * *

Charles has been to enough parties, gallery openings, and fetes that Raven’s show feels more familiar to him than he had expected. The show is the same routine but there are lovely, tattooed people in various states of undress perched on or standing with their pedestals, holding their frames over the pieces Raven has brought to life in their skin. The star of Raven’s gallery space is undoubtedly the vivacious Jean Grey in her tiny green and gold outfit. She stands in front of her pedestal, frame balanced on the back of her shoulders. She has the arm with the phoenix wing thrust through the front of the frame, making it look like her tattoo is ready to burst from both her body and golden frame.

Another of Raven’s masterpieces is the man with black corneas (when Charles asks Erik explains Mr. LaBeau’s corneas are injected with black dye) and a cascade of playing cards that fall from his shoulders and gather in overlapping concentrations around his forearms and wrists. He is quick to laugh and has a three-card busker’s game set on his pedestal and his frame hooked over one shoulder. If not for the eyes, Charles would consider chatting the man up; his face is handsome and he has a Creole-accented voice that drops like dark molasses.

There are others of course, including Triple Cha’s Anne Marie. She sits on her pedestal, an oval frame held between her hands highlighting sweeping, grey text across her chest. The text is Latin and Charles startles when he realizes the English reading is an interpretation of _Do Not Touch_. Raven had asked him about that very phrase almost two years ago and he’d lectured her about the difficulty of translating a flexible language into a ridiculous one.

He looks quickly around for Raven, but she’s surrounded by friends and clients that want to share her golden moment. Not a few have brought her gifts which Hank dutifully takes and deposits on the bench next to Erik’s record player after Raven thanks and hugs the gifter. Charles will ask her about Anne Marie’s tattoo later. As it is, he’s nearly as surrounded; as the owner of Quicksilver, Erik has his own connections among the crowd.

Oddly enough, though Erik says he’s fine with the crowd, he tends to follow along when Charles retreats to the work space to either refill his plastic cup with wine or raid the trays of food Darwin brought them earlier. Charles finds he likes the silent attention Erik gives him even if Charles has happily taken the burden of most of the conversations on. Erik is free to provide as much or as little input as he wants.

It doesn’t hurt at all that this is Charles’ element; he guides conversations this way and that, always deflecting deeper speculation about Raven’s journeyman work back to Raven herself. “Only Raven really knows,” he says like a mantra and after five or six repetitions, he even hears Erik say a variation in a simultaneous conversation.

Charles sees all three copies of Sentimental Ink in the hands of guests, picked up from where they were set in one of the window sills. Those who mention the magazine to Erik are quick to say they haven’t seen it in stores yet and Charles is happy to tell them that of course they’ve received advance copies.

Guests are also interacting with the framed tablets. Charles has been too occupied with entertaining to watch for reactions to Raven’s portfolio. He’s only really interested in how people react to her gigantic oil paintings, but he supposes he’ll have more time later to see if anyone laughs or acts scandalized. He’s a little worried how Ororo Munroe will react to the paintings, but if Georgia O’Keeffe can get away with it maybe Raven can, too.

He never thought he would enjoy Raven’s show this much. Charles has people laughing, agreeing with him, and, he would like to think, saving up some of his vocabulary for games of Scrabble. Every now and again he glances next to him to see how Erik is taking the event, but Erik’s face is fixed in a firmly ambivalent neutral. Charles would be worried, but Erik’s body language lacks any of the tension that announces his anger. That should be enough, Charles knows, but he’d enjoy himself even more if some of the warm and encouraging regard he was receiving came from Erik, too. It’s childish, and Charles knows it, but he wants Erik to acknowledge his social brilliance.

When Sean shows up in an orange swirl of ginger hair and freckles, Erik splits off from his acquaintances and admirers to join Sean over by the sound system. Charles manages to keep most of the small crowd entertained even without the object of their attention. In the background the haunting piano music fades out and a more upbeat selection begins to mix in. Charles wishes he was with the two of them where he might catch Sean lecturing Erik on his musical taste. Though, truth be told, Charles had been enjoying the piano.

The two finally return to Charles and Charles is interrupted by a quick one-armed hug from Sean. “Hey, Raven’s artist statement’s in about ten minutes. I’m going to throw down some electro swing after that, so I better see you dancing with the burly-q girls, okay?”

Sean follows up by whipping his face toward Erik. “Don’t worry, Jean’s not wearing the flammable pasties.”

“I don’t care what she’s wearing as long as she keeps her breasts away from me,” Erik snorts. The statement only makes Sean laugh and point at Erik. He backs away, laughter unceasing, to be swallowed by the crowd.

Heedless of all the on-lookers, Charles can’t keep from asking, “What is all this about Jean and her breasts?”

“She lights her pasties’ tassels as part of her act,” Erik explains. “At one of her shows she brushed into me while she had them going and lit my shirt on fire. One came off and dropped in my lap. That’s why—” Anything else Erik has to say is swallowed in the outrageous laughter that follows. While he laughs with the others, Charles finds his hand sliding up Erik’s back to grip the opposite shoulder in a casual embrace. Erik’s skin is warm despite his shiftlessness in the growing evening. Charles feels the solidity of muscles in Erik’s shoulder as he gives a squeeze. Stuart was far more muscled, but never so wiry and certainly not usually so tense.

Charles releases Erik with some regret; he’s undeniably attracted to be sure and it’s not the usual kind of attraction, either. Maybe if the two could just fuck he could exorcise the physical attraction. Despite the noise, the crowd and laughing, even Erik’s growing tension, Charles can’t deny the flash of warmth that leaves his balls tingling at the thought of trying out that promising cock.

Though he’s released Erik, Charles can’t help closing the distance between them by keeping his elbow or his shoulder in light contact with Erik’s colorful skin. Charles’ cheeks are growing slowly pink and it has only a little to do with the wine.

In light of Erik’s growing tension, Charles returns to the conversation, and pulls the burden of attention away from Erik and turns it back onto Jean, but this time he asks about Jean’s phoenix tattoo. That, after all, takes focus off Erik and reminds everyone why they’re there in the first place.

And then the music winds slowly down and Erik turns to Charles. Charles is aware of every finger on Erik’s hand as he grips his bicep with gentle, but firm pressure. “I’ve got to introduce Raven. I’ll be right back.”

“I could come with you,” Charles suggests. “Everyone will be focused on her as it is, so you won’t need to worry.”

Erik shakes his head and releases Charles’ arm. “I’ll be right back.”

Charles frowns but nods. He would much rather be close to Raven when she makes her artist statement so he can share the moment with her, but then, on further consideration, if he’d had his way she wouldn’t be having this moment at all. Accepting that, he bites his bottom lip and slips his phone out instead to take a shot as Erik moves through the crowd to the small passage between the gallery and the storage and utility room.

Once Erik gets to the area he tells people to move back about five feet and as soon as he has the space he begins to speak. “Raven started working for me after dropping out of the School of Visual Arts in New York. Since then I’ve watched her grow and develop as an artist and as a person. Though it’s hard to believe, Raven’s biggest struggle during this time hasn’t been her art, it’s been expressing herself. Therefore all the people she selected to show as milestones in her artwork tonight are also people she wants to honor as individuals that have inspired her to be herself.”

He turns his back to the room and makes a beckoning gesture with his left hand. Hank comes forward with another pedestal, this shorter and more squat than any of the others and places it just inside the gallery space. A moment later a figure wrapped in loose, blue linen steps forward. The fabric covers all but the hands, which Erik takes in order to gently lead her to the pedestal. The room has become so quiet that Charles clearly hears Erik quietly ask if she’s ready. In response, the hands reach out and grasp Erik’s shoulder then follow his neck up to his face.

“Thank you for taking me on, Erik,” Raven, obviously it’s Raven, says from under the wrap. “You have no idea how much you’ve done for me.”

Erik takes her wrists and carefully pulls her hands from his face. “I have more of an idea than I used to, but this is your moment, not mine.”

A smile spreads across Charles’ face at Erik’s words, at the allusion to Charles’ earlier statement about Erik’s effect on Raven. Even though he’s not standing near them, Charles feels a part of the moment between his sister and her mentor. His chest blooms warm with love for Raven and gratitude to Erik.

If Raven replies, he doesn’t hear it, but he sees her nod.

“Everyone here supports you,” Erik says and releases her hands. He turns back and gestures to Azazel who has moved closer to the entryway and then nods to Hank, still standing behind Raven. Erik turns back to the crowd with a firm command. “Phones on vibrate, no pictures.”

At first Charles considers defying the no pictures announcement since he should have special privileges as Raven’s brother, but then his stomach drops and he slips the phone back into his pocket. There’s probably only one reason Erik would make that decision. Maybe also the only reason Raven would wrap herself up for a dramatic unveiling.

Erik moves through the crowd again, heading for Charles. Despite his slowly-mounting fears, it warms Charles’ heart to have Erik return to him rather than stay at Raven’s side. Though if his return is about Erik’s dislike of crowds or people touching him, then it’s better he move away from her. However, with Erik’s introduction and the way Raven is wrapped up, Charles suspects that Erik might want to keep him far away from Raven, too.

“Thank you for making me a small part of this,” Charles says when Erik is at his side.

Erik nods. “You did that all on your own, Charles.”

Charles has no time to respond; Raven has already begun speaking.

“Thank you everybody for coming to my journeyperson show,” Raven says from within her covering. “I want to thank Erik for giving me a chance to travel this road with all of you. If not for him, I wouldn’t have grown as an artist. I also wouldn’t have met the hot guy behind me.”

Charles’ eyes dart to Hank, who is biting his lips and looking a little sweaty in the gallery lighting. Charles recalls threatening Hank previously in the night and feels a little better for it; it may have been wrong or cruel, but Charles isn’t always one to deny himself wallowing in bitterness.

“If not for Hank I wouldn’t be doing this tonight. Wave at the nice people, Hank,” Raven chirps. Hank does so; he’s gone pale with splotches of color high on his cheeks. “Okay, I know this is goofy. You guys know I’m goofy, so you’re not surprised.”

Charles isn’t the only one chuckling at that. From the work space alcove Sean calls, “C’mon Raven! Stop stalling.”

Raven laughs in return, but it’s tinged with a bit of nerves that dries the laughter in Charles’ throat. This is it, he thinks, Raven’s going to take that linen off and she’s going to be naked under there. He understands why she didn’t tell him, he understands why Erik is keeping him back. He understands and he accepts that they’re both probably right to do so. Charles keeps his arms from crossing on his chest, but he can’t help clutching his hands together. He tells himself it’s okay, because Raven’s seen most of these people naked before.

When he sees movement under the blue linen he assumes she’s getting ready to throw it away in a dramatic reveal of her body. His little sister’s body. Charles licks his dry lips and tenses for the inevitable. She’s always been so unhappy in her body, but as long as nobody takes photos of her, if this will help her, he can accept it. Maybe. He’s determined to try.

“You can play the track, Sean,” Raven calls, and in the next moment the music comes up and it’s no song Charles has ever heard, so he tunes it out, just watches as the linen starts to rise and slough backwards over Raven’s head.

The first thing Charles sees is Raven’s bare feet and anxiety hits his chest; his hands ache with the pressure exert on one another. He cringes but then he sees the hem of her jeans and growing hope swirls uncomfortably with the heat of his fast-beating heart. He sees the battered and distressed knees of her jeans, then the buckle of her belt, then, like a blessing, the blue hem of a ribbed shirt. Charles relaxes, his heart falls back from its rapid beat. She must have a new tattoo, he rationalizes.

Shoulders and arms bare, he sees her chimera’s blue coils wrapped around her shoulders. It’s the first time he’s ever been so happy to see them, but where’s the new tattoo? Or is this just symbolic like a snake shedding her old skin?

But then the blue linen falls back from her face and there’s suddenly far more pink and red to Raven’s lips than he’s seen in nearly two decades. The pink and red of a gaping birth defect that sapped her confidence and made her a victim in their childhood home.

“Janelle Monae says it best in her song, _Q.U.E.E.N._ ‘Even if it makes other people uncomfortable, I will love who I am.’” Raven says. “I am _my own_ masterpiece!”

It’s like being struck by lightning. Charles surges forward without any thought, without thinking about the _scene_ he’s about to make. His entire being is collected and in agreement; he must cover her up, he must hide her, he can’t let anyone see this thing that caused her to pass from one unloving family to another. He’ll protect her. She’ll be safe with him, safe from all the people that will never love her like he loves her, like she deserves to be loved.

Charles has no idea how far he gets before there are arms around his waist, only that he hits those arms with such force that his torso folds in half over them. Then the band of flesh, bone, and ink lifts him up and his feet quit the floor.

It’s probably Erik, but Charles doesn’t care who it is; he drives one elbow back and makes a satisfyingly meaty connection while his other hand goes back for a grip on head, neck, or hair. His hand curls around a head of short-cropped hair and yanks hard, ramming the person’s face against the back of Charles’ shoulder. Charles throws his elbow again but the second time he tries to pull his assailant’s head around, he loses his grip; which would’ve been better if he hadn’t trimmed his nails. He takes as much skin as he can anyway, then reaches back with both arms to consolidate his hold around the man’s broad shoulders.

With his hold leading to a steady base for balance, Charles curls his legs up to make his weight as ungainly as possible, hoping to cause the man carrying him to list forward. When that doesn’t happen, Charles uses all the considerable power in his legs to kick forward and away. It does the trick. He falls, but with those arms tight around his body yet.

They fall through a doorway and onto the floor on an old carpet that Charles’ mind still has the capacity to catalog as shabby. His face hits the old silk and a heavy weight presses him into it. “G-d dammit, Charles, stop it; you don’t know what you’re doing.”

“You bastard,” Charles hisses and tries to kick back at Erik, but his legs lack power unless he can get them back underneath him. “You knew! You let her and you knew!”

“I didn’t fucking know!” Erik snarls back. The room goes dark with a whoosh of air, a thud, and a click. “She told me she was going to expose herself! I had no fucking idea she had cleft lip.”

“Cleft palate,” Charles corrects with venom. “Complete bilateral cleft palate; the morphogenesis of her face was a mess thanks to mutations in an alphabet soup of genes. So what do you think of her now? Do you still want her here? Do you regret fucking her? Do you wonder what it would be like to get your dick sucked by a mouth like that?”

A hand descends on the back of Charles’ head and slams his face into the carpet. Weight builds on Charles’ back and then there’s a fierce whisper lighting up his ear. “Don’t talk about Raven like that. Who says vulgar shit like that about their sister?”

Their stepfather. Charles freezes under Erik’s weight; he’s parroted Kurt. “You have no idea what Raven’s gone through, Erik. You don’t know how hard it’s been for her and how much she needs me right now.”

“Charles,” Erik says, face moving away by the sound of his voice and the weight diminishing on Charles’ back. “Raven hasn’t needed you to protect her for a long time. You think she didn’t learn that in the two years you didn’t see each other?”

“No,” Charles says and pulls an arm out from under himself to slam it against the floor. “She needs me! She fucking well needs me! It’s the two of us against the world, god dammit! The two of us!”

Charles feels the sigh that follows; from the rise and fall of Erik’s torso to the breath on the back of his neck. “She needs her brother, but she needs her freedom, too. You need to let go or you’ll lose her.”

The designs come back to Charles’ mind, Erik’s accusations in images; the chessboard with the ravens taking flight, the martyr with Charles’ face whose blood opens the raven’s cage. Heart wild, he thrashes again in Erik’s grasp. “I heard you the first two times!”

“The first two?” Erik says. His arms remain tight around Charles’ ribcage. “You mean the designs? I was just trying to piss you off with those. Maybe there was some truth in them, but without an artist statement, people just read things the way their personal experiences tell them to. If that was your interpretation, then you’ve known for a while what you need to do.”

“I need to make sure she’s okay,” Charles insists. “I need to check on her, Erik. What kind of brother would I be if I didn’t go out there and see that she’s fine?”

“I can’t let you go out there,” Erik says, but his arms withdraw from around Charles’ waist. “I can’t go out there myself with what you’ve done to my face. I’m bleeding on the back of your shirt. Serve you right if it stains.”

“What?” Charles wriggles under Erik’s weight, but has no intent to crawl away. It takes effort even though Erik isn’t particularly trying to keep him face down because Erik is sitting on him.

It takes a few moments for Charles to take stock of his surroundings. The room isn’t big but contains two shut doors and a window that lets in the vaguest amount of light. Most of the light in the room is coming in from under one of the doors and by the sound of the music it's the same door Erik must have carried him through. The room smells so strongly of incense that it reminds Charles of Asian temples.

Once Charles’ eyes adjust he sees he’s bloodied Erik’s nose and there are two parallel scratches under his right eye. The light is too dim to see where he hit Erik’s torso, but from the tingling in his elbow he knows there will be ugly bruises come the morning. Charles isn’t sure how he feels about it all because taking care of Raven is the more important issue. Isn’t it? But he’s not sure, he hasn’t been sure for days; if Erik’s right, weeks. Hitting people seems like more something Erik would do, not him. Erik is the violent one, the tattooist, the one that renders his art in blood.

“I…” Charles chokes a little on the words he doesn’t want to say. He’s losing strength now the anxiety eclipses the adrenaline. “I want to say that I’m sorry, but I’m not, Erik. I’m sorry that I’m not sorry. I’m a shitty human being, to be honest. I’ve always been. I tried so hard to protect her but I never really could. Even after all the reconstructive surgeries and the speech therapy, even after going to new schools where nobody knew her, she still had to come home to our mother and stepfather.”

As he confesses it, speaks the words he’s never told to another living soul, he feels worse. Raven has repeatedly advised that he’d feel better if told another person, but here he is and it’s horrible and humiliating. Charles closes his eyes and lifts his hands to his face and scrubs frantically; his hands’ way is eased by the salt water the pressure squeezes out. “This isn’t working.”

“I’ve got a text from Raven,” Erik says in the darkness. “She wants to know if you’re okay and if she should come talk to you.”

Charles lifts his hands to look up at Erik. Bathed in the white-blue of his phone’s backlight, the blood drying on Erik’s lips and chin looks purple-black. “No to both. I don’t want her to see me like this. I don’t want her to see what I did to you.”

Erik types a message out with his thumbs and turns his phone’s screen off, banishing his eerily-lit face back to the faint orange outline provided by the door. “Done.”

He slips the phone back in his jeans and then rises up on his knees, taking his weight with him. Perversely, Charles doesn’t want to lose that human warmth or the weight that had made him feel oddly grounded. He reaches out and takes hold of Erik’s thighs and pulls him down hard.

“Charles, what are you doing?” Erik’s eyes are on him and they are no more open to interpretation than they ever have been when he’s not angry. That intrigues Charles; Erik isn’t angry.

“Why aren’t you angry?” Charles asks and grips the sides of Erik’s long thighs with hard fingers.

Another sigh moves Erik’s chest. He shakes his head, though his eyes remain on Charles. “You could say I understand a little how it feels to not be able to protect somebody you love.”

“Erik?” Charles asks, hating how desperate and pathetic his voice sounds. He has to ask, though, because in this moment he wants nothing so much as to get out of his messy head. “Kiss me.”

It’s no surprise when Erik only stares at Charles in response, so Charles reaches up from Erik’s thighs to grasp his bicep. His hand covers the heart. He pulls firmly.

“I know you want me, Erik,” Charles says, eyelids falling closed until he’s looking at Erik through a blur of eyelashes and watery eyes. “I wanted you the moment I saw you.”

Erik’s silence lasts several rapid beats of Charles anxious heart. When he does speak, his voice is uncharacteristically soft. “I don’t think it’s a good idea. You’re under a lot of stress and there’s blood all over my face.”

“You can use my jumper,” Charles says quickly and releases Erik’s bicep to yank the orange knit up his torso and over his head. “You’ve bled on it anyway.”

Again, Erik makes no quick response except to take the shirt and wipe at his face. The clean up is a messy affair; at first the blood smears around and leaves dark outlines of dried crust. The sight is sobering, but would be far more disturbing if Charles hadn’t bloodied his fair share of noses while boxing. It would be less disturbing, though, if his heart would calm the fuck down.

Charles reaches up again for Erik’s arm, this time taking him by the elbow. “Your face is clean enough. Come on, I need out of my head. I need to stop thinking.”

Erik pauses with the knit to his face. Even if it wasn’t dim or Erik’s face half-covered, Charles wouldn’t be able to make out Erik’s expression. It takes seconds, it takes forever, but he finally speaks. “I think it would be a good idea to go up to the roof and get some fresh air.”

It’s the best thing Charles has heard all night.


	12. The double-edged sword

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With love to Rummy for looking the majority of this chapter over.

_The double-edged sword_

Erik is keenly aware of Charles behind him as he takes him from the privacy of the back room into the adjoining utility and storage room. Getting through is a trick because Erik has a metal cabinet set against the door in the utility room. It takes a few minutes to get the door open but he’s committed to doing everything that he can to keep Charles from making an appearance in the work space or gallery. Erik doesn’t want to deal with any of the consequences of the scene Charles made nor does he want either sibling to see the other.

As Erik assumed, there’s no-one in the room. With Charles on his heels and his hot breath puffing on Erik’s spine, he leads him to the adjoined main bathroom. Only Raven and customers ever use the bathroom that links the storage room with the entryway; Erik prefers the bathroom he made out of the former janitorial closet. There’s a short wait for the bathroom to empty but then it’s nothing to get in and lock the doors.

The messy smears of dried blood on his face can’t be avoided in the track lighting, but Erik isn’t the least bit surprised at the sight; he’s seen, felt, and inflicted far worse. All the same, it looks gruesome.

“I’m sorry,” Charles says miserably from beside him.

He should be, Erik thinks. He doesn’t really care how sorry Charles is, though. Not when Charles said he wasn’t sorry mere minutes ago. Why he’s not infuriated, Erik doesn’t know. Perhaps because the scene played out in Erik’s back room; a place that has become a sanctuary against rage.

Erik says nothing. He twists the water on and scrubs at his face until it’s clean. The carelessly hard rubbing sparks pain; an instant reminder of the scratches Charles’ blunt fingers delivered beneath his right eye. Now Erik can feel and see a third scratch across his eyelid.

Erik doesn’t remember shutting his eye let alone an attempted gouge; it’s a relief Charles is more of a boxer and less a back-street grappler. Erik’s had his share of injuries from dirty fights. The experience allows Erik to reassesses Charles as a fighter; he decides that Charles probably couldn’t take him in an unprepared fight. Charles has good instincts, but he’s a better fighter when he’s thinking. Erik doesn’t need to think, he just acts.

When he’s done inspecting the scratches Erik towels his face off and glances at his chest where Charles hit him with his elbow. The good thing about Raven’s journeyman tattoo is likely the water color wash look that is currently covering for the growing redness, but not for the growing swelling. By tomorrow his nose will probably be fine, the bruise on his chest will be ugly but easily hidden. However, the scratches will lead to unwanted attention and that recalls the heat and anger that haven’t yet erupted.

“Charles,” Erik says.

Charles meets his eyes in the mirror. “Are you okay?”

“You’re a dick,” Erik states and opens the door to the hall.

From behind he hears, “I know.”

There are plenty of people in the entryway and loitering outside on the landing. Some of them know Erik and greet him without mentioning the scratches. Erik doubts anybody at this end of the crowd saw any of the disturbance that happened near the doorway to the work space, but there’s no telling. He nods his response to the greetings and goes directly for the stairs to the next landing.

The third floor has been vacant for years; Erik suspects their landlady doesn’t want to put the money into renovations to revive it. The second floor had been in a bad way when Erik first viewed it. As part of their cheap lease the lessees before him had never asked for repairs. Erik had negotiated a substantially lower rate based on renovating the whole floor himself. Despite initially hating the idea of having a tattoo artist (and Jew) in her building, Erik’s hard work and steady rent payments won her over.

There aren’t any stairs to the roof, but there is a ladder that leads to a padlocked hatch. Erik pulls his keys from his pocket; they click and jangle together as he unlocks the heavy padlock. He lifts the door back, careful not to let it bang against the roof, and slips the heavy lock onto a belt loop and presses it closed. A form of relief washes over him as he climbs up and into the inky-blue of Portland’s evening sky. The night smells of ocean air and maybe a hint of coming rain. On the western horizon he sees smudged flashes of purple but hears no thunder.

The night air settles chill against Erik’s bare skin even though it’s still summer; sometimes the wind off the ocean can bring colder air into the city. Instinctively, he moves to pull on the shirt he’s thrown over his shoulder. But it’s Charles’. He takes the stained shirt off his shoulder and turns around to meet its owner.

As expected, Charles comes up the ladder and closes the hatch with equal care for noise. He’s moving with more fluidity and fewer of the skittish jerks and hesitations that seem untrue to Charles’ character. Erik isn’t sure what’s going through Charles’ mind and hasn’t the empathy to guess. If Charles can summon something painfully similar to regret, Erik thinks he’d be surprised.

Charles squints in the darkness, no doubt waiting for his eyes to adjust. “Is there anything to trip over up here?”

“Not much,” Erik replies. “A few pipes and some old attempts Raven and I made at gardening. A canopy we were trying to get going from clematis vines that we kept forgetting to water last summer.”

Charles comes closer when Erik holds out the orange shirt; in the moonlight it has lost most of its warm color. “Raven initially said we were going to have a party up here.”

Erik lets Charles pull the shirt from his fingers. “That was the plan, but it changed when she decided to have the girls in their burlesque outfits. We’re not supposed to be up here and burlesque and nudity would attract too much attention.”

“Then how do you have a key?” Charles asks. He doesn’t put on the shirt, but he moves closer, shoulder to bicep with Erik.

“I had it made,” Erik says as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Maybe it is to him, but obviously it isn’t something that happens in Charles’ world.

“How did you do that?”

Erik shakes his head in slight exasperation because, really, what did he expect? Charles never has these kinds of problems; these problems are beneath Charles’ pay scale. “I took the lock to a locksmith to have a key made. I took the lock off the door by dumping a hipster’s ironic can of PBR and cut a padlock slim jim out of it.”

“Oh,” says Charles and then sighs. Erik watches as he takes several deep breaths of ocean air and then scans the horizon for the moon. A silvery fringe of clouds is running a veil over the waxing gibbous. “Where did you learn that?”

“Where did you learn to treat Raven like shit?” Erik counters.

The shirt falls from Charles’ fingers and lands on his expensive-looking shoes; he moves both hands to cover his face. “God, no, let’s talk about you. Let’s talk about anything but this, about this night, about me. None of those things.”

Erik reaches down and snags the shirt. As he stands he takes Charles’ bicep in hand and pulls his hand from his face and drags his body toward one of two old iron garden benches Erik and Raven hauled up back when they’d thought they would make a green space of the roof.

Erik pushes Charles down onto the bench’s weathered wooden slats and tosses the shirt into his lap. “You’re the one that fucked up,” Erik says harshly since there’s nobody to hear. “I put up with your bullshit downstairs but up here, no. I might hold back in semi-public out of respect for Raven, but there’s nothing holding me back up here. You said you wanted to protect her, but you can’t keep her in some gilded cage and then punish her when she doesn’t sing your song. You don’t know what cages are like; sooner or later, she’ll stop singing.”

Charles’ hands resume their place over his face. He rubs viciously, massages his forehead with his fingertips, and then drags them down his face to drop them into his lap with the shirt. When he looks up again, Erik sees eyes pale and glassy with unshed tears. “Bloody hell, Erik, you won’t understand.”

“That makes me perfect,” Erik retorts. “If I can’t understand you’re safe to say whatever complex bullshit you have to say. I’ll be too stupid to get it.”

Internally Erik groans; he’s pretty sure that without the profanities he sounds like Dr. Frost. He wishes he could just send Charles to her; Charles is the kind of client she usually sees in her nice, white Manhattan office. Erik… Erik was a special case. No, he understands Charles far too well. Charles doesn’t want to think about his bullshit and Erik knows that feeling intimately; he’s just better than Charles at avoiding it.

“ _Just fucking talk_ ,” Erik hisses.

Charles lowers his face and sinks his fingers into the shirt in his lap. Erik wonders if he’s holding onto the bloodied parts of the knit. After a short eternity of silence, one hand turns in his lap so Charles can check the watch on his wrist and then he takes a deep breath and begins to speak.

“My mother… she couldn’t have children after me. She wanted a daughter and my father wanted to help an unfortunate, so they adopted Raven when she was almost four and I was eight. Raven had never been treated for her cleft palate which meant we had to start on that immediately. But a few months after bringing Raven home, my father died.”

Erik watches Charles’ hands clench and twist the orange fabric. “Mother was always a bit distant and Raven, well, she needed so much love. I mean, she’d been hidden away by her birth parents and needed a lot of affection, I think, to make up for that.

“And then there were the surgeries, speech therapy, motor skills therapy, and the special mouth pieces. Sharon, our mother, she hated the burden Raven represented, because Raven needed extra care and Sharon didn’t have it in her, I suppose, in her grief. We had nannies, but Sharon started drinking and she treated them badly. They never ever stayed. Nobody _ever_ stayed.”

It’s more miserable a story than Erik had thought it would be and without mention of the stepfather that brandished kitchen knives he doubts Charles is even to a middle point of this overview.

In a halting show of support, he reaches into Charles’ twisted shirt and finds a hand. He grasps it tight, but says nothing. Erik doesn’t expect Charles to fall apart with the simple gesture, but it triggers the full mass of a shaking Charles unfurling from his misery and closing around Erik instead. Charles’ face is in Erik’s chest and it’s hot and wet with sudden sobs.

“Nobody stayed!” he repeats in choked outrage. “Nobody stayed for us. They knew how bad it was. _They knew!_ They bloody well fucking knew! But nobody stayed in that huge house but Raven and me and the bloody bottles.”

Erik hasn’t seen a break down like this since— It’s been a long time. He doesn’t know what to do. He’s still gripping Charles’ hand but Charles is all but wrapped around him in turn. Awkwardly, he squeezes Charles’ hand again and reaches around to encircle his upper body as best as he can with his free arm.

“We had a dog and she was so good to us; we named her Nana like in Peter Pan. She would always come when one of us cried, but Kurt kicked her one night.” Charles is shaking so hard that Erik briefly wonders if he will lose his grip on him. “She was barking at him because he was yelling at me and he kicked her! He kicked her and she died. He killed our Nana.”

“Is Kurt your stepfather?” Erik asks with what he hopes is enough firmness to cut through the growing hysteria, but enough gentleness that he doesn’t upset Charles more.

“Yes,” Charles says, sounding stronger, but still sniffling. “Sharon was cold, but he was a terror. He was so horrible he didn’t even get visiting rights for his son from his first marriage. What kind of mother marries a man knowing that?”

“I don’t know,” Erik says quietly; he has no experience in that regard. “A troubled one.”

“And I thought to myself,” Charles whispers. “What if Kurt lost his temper and kicked Raven like he kicked Nana?”

“You’d kill him,” Erik says firmly, without hesitation, without thinking. The anger is suddenly right there, rising up in righteous fury at the thought of this man Kurt and the threat he represented.

“No!” Charles slips from Erik’s grasp. His brow is furrowed in outrage. “No, don’t make it sound like we could’ve done better or that we had a choice. Murder’s never an answer. We were children and I feared for Raven’s life; he killed Nana with _just one kick_. Even if we were older, bigger, we couldn’t have done anything and if we’d gone to the police we’d have ended up apart. We were trapped.”

Just as quickly as the anger came it shrivels in Erik’s chest. Charles' word leave him cold, uncomfortable, and unexpectedly weak. 

“The worst part,” Charles says rubbing at his eyes first with his hands and then the orange shirt, “was that everyone went away. No toy was fun enough, no joke entertaining enough, no clothes fashionable enough, no presents ever expensive enough, no sex ever good enough.”

Erik doesn’t know what to say to this; he has his own problems with people. Leaving is what _he_ does. He has Quicksilver and he has friends in Portland but he has never felt like he couldn’t leave and rebuild again. As frightening and harsh as most people find him, Erik has learned he has a gravity that pulls people into orbit around him however briefly. He had thought Charles would never want for admirers.

Erik doesn’t know what to say, so he grasps Charles gently by the back of the neck and pulls him in. Charles offers no resistance; he drops the shirt in his lap and presses his face back against Erik’s chest.

“Everyone goes away,” Charles says, a mere panting of words against the black stripe on Erik’s chest. “Everyone _always_ goes away.”

Saying nothing, Erik sighs through his nose and leans his chin down to rest against the top of Charles’ head. Slowly, eventually, Charles’ silent shaking fades and his labored breathing begins to even out. Charles shifts against Erik’s body to bring up the wrist with his watch. He angles his face from Erik’s chest to look at the watch’s hands and then presses back.

Charles swallows several times and relaxes against Erik. Erik assumes Charles is finally exhausted and allows himself to relax as well; he leaves his hand on the back of Charles’ neck and his chin on his head and watches the distant lightning. Beneath Erik’s silent watch, Charles’ breathing becomes deeper, calmer, and then more humid as he opens his mouth and presses his soft lips against the black of Erik’s chest.

Erik’s eyes widen into awareness at the feel of what is very likely a kiss. Another press of lips follows.

“Before, I said I wasn’t sorry,” Charles says against Erik’s black tattoo. “I’m not saying I am now, but I am saying I think, maybe, I could be. I need time to think it over, but not just now.”

“There’s a lot to think about,” Erik says into Charles’ hair.

Charles ducks his head and closes his lips over Erik’s nipple; he sucks lightly. Erik’s back comes away from the wood and iron bench with the jolt of sensation. The hand he has on the back of Charles’ neck moves into his hair to pull Charles’ face away from his skin.

“I’ll think about it all tomorrow,” Charles says as he allows his head to be pulled back. His lips look swollen and Erik vaguely wonders if that’s from crying or arousal.

“You’re vulnerable,” Erik replies. How can Charles go from anguish to arousal so quickly?

“Oh, you adorable fool.” Charles smiles and Erik is surprised that it isn’t a condescending or arrogant look at all. “You have no idea how strong I am.”

Erik thinks that may be true, but he isn’t sure this is a good way to test him. His body feels differently though and if Charles’ stays in his arms it’s going to become obvious how much an effect he’s having. Erik pulls back on Charles’ hair once more. “I don’t understand what you want from me.”

Charles places his hands on Erik’s shoulders and leans back into Erik’s hand to take the pressure off his scalp. “Lies. You know exactly what I want from you. I want your cock.”

“No,” Erik says and releases Charles’ hair. “This is too fast. It’s not a good idea.”

“Too fast?” Charles pulls on Erik’s shoulders for leverage, swings himself up and sets himself down. He straddles Erik on the bench, setting his ass right on Erik’s crotch. The pressure is both exciting and painful. “Your prick says otherwise. You’re willing, I’m willing; there’s no issue. You’ve admitted you want me, haven’t you?”

Charles is warm in his lap and rubbing his ass in small, slow circles over Erik’s dick. It feels damn good, even better since it’s been more than six months since Erik got laid. He wants it, wants to fuck Raven’s brother hard and dirty, but there are problems. The more important being that he’s not sure he can fuck Charles without it becoming a personal act. The less important being that he doesn’t really want to fuck somebody he’s planning on tattooing. But Erik denies himself a lot of things for lesser reasons. Why not just this one allowance? Because Charles only fucks people he doesn’t want to be involved with? Erik doesn’t think he can change that so, in essence, he has nothing to lose and also nothing to win.

Erik leans forward, jaw taut, tendons in his neck pulling, until he is cheek to cheek with Charles. His tone is harsh and breathy at Charles’ ear as he says, “You have any condoms?”

Erik feels a shiver rattle Charles’ from top to bottom. “No, but we don’t need one, do we? I told you at Multnomah that I’m clean; I’ve done nothing since then that would change that.”

Erik pulls Charles down harder on his lap. “Have you ever had an STD, Charles?”

“Not ever,” Charles moans.

“I have,” Erik replies, “and I don’t care how clean you think you are; nothing happens without condoms.”

Charles stills and leans back to look Erik in the eyes. “Do you still have it, then? The STD?”

Erik snorts seeing the concern on Charles’ face. “No. It was acute Hep-B. I was sick as a dog for a month and then got better.”

“Even if you cleared the infection you’ve still got the DNA,” Charles says. “Has it ever reactivated?”

“No.” He gives a soft snort of humor despite the bad memories the whole thing brings to mind and shakes his head. “Not so interested now, are you?”

Charles rolls his eyes and, to Erik’s pained delight, rubs his muscular ass over him in another tight circle. “I am definitely interested; I’m just worried about you. You’re at higher risk for liver cancer. Yes, in rare cases it can reactivate and you could potentially infect somebody at that time without condoms, but I’m thinking about _your_ health. Do you have health insurance?”

“I do,” Erik says, “but condoms are downstairs. Unless you want me to go get some, we’re back to the same non-penetrative options as Multnomah.”

“Fine.” Charles mouths wetly at Erik’s jaw and then whispers in his ear, “Stop being so chatty.”

It’s a phrase Erik hasn’t ever had directed to him except in sarcasm. He pulls Charles down by the neck and sets their mouths together.

Charles is just as swift to invade Erik’s mouth as Erik is Charles’. It’s frustrating at first as they both immediately come on strong and teeth clash. Then, in the heat of it, Erik has to push Charles back when Charles uses entirely too much tongue. “The only time a tongue goes down my throat is when it’s been cooked.”

“Ah, sorry,” Charles breathes while Erik gives him an annoyed look. “Excited.”

The next time they come together things go better, more like the sensual kisses they’d shared in the water at Multnomah. Erik takes more time to explore Charles’ mouth, to rub his tongue against Charles’, to suck on it, to close his jaw just enough that he scrapes the wet appendage with his teeth. Charles moans into Erik’s mouth and slings an arm around his neck. His other hand rubs at Erik’s chest, finds his tattooed nipple and gently pinches.

Erik squeezes his eyes shut at the welcome mixture of pleasure and pain. Several years ago when he got the black stripe, the nipple was the most painful part of the process, but since healing it’s become an occasional perk during sex. Charles squeezes softly again. Erik inhales a puff of humid air through his nose at the sensation that lances between his nipple and balls. Under Charles’ ass his cock is filling out fast.

Charles pulls back from their kiss just enough to run the tip of his tongue back and forth along Erik’s lower lip. “I had wondered,” he whispers. “Can you orgasm from this kind of stimulation?”

Erik’s only reply is to catch Charles’ lower lip in his teeth and suck on it. He releases it entirely when Charles rubs Erik’s nipple more firmly between his blunt fingertips. Erik sucks in another breath and catches Charles’ hair and pulls him away. He opens his eyes and looks at Charles face, his spit-slick lips and his wide, dark pupils.

Careful, yet firm, Erik pulls Charles down to the bench by his hair; he’s captivated by the moue Charles makes as he allows himself to be pulled off Erik’s lap. Erik’s nipple is released as a consequence but not without an extra ungentle pinch that grips Erik’s balls with electricity and sends tingles up his cock’s shaft. As soon as Charles is off his lap, Erik releases Charles’ hair and lifts his hips to pull his cock from the leg of his boxer briefs and up against his abdomen. Next to him Charles unbuckles his belt, unzips his jeans, and pulls his shirt tails out.

It’s a short respite; Erik is quick to cover Charles on the bench. The positioning is a little awkward; Erik is simply too tall, but Charles is fine on his back with one knee up and the other leg off the bench. Erik leans down between Charles’ legs with one hand on the armrest next to Charles’ head. His other hand folds back the edges of Charles’ fly and grips him through the soft fabric of his briefs.

Charles’ cock is warm and hard under the cotton. Remarkable to Erik, there’s even a small damp patch against the head. Charles moans at the touch and gasps when Erik begins to explore the length and width of him by touch. Charles’ lips look pornographic when he moans, but Erik’s always been more interested in the strong thighs under the jeans. Unfortunately, the only way to get any action with those thighs is if he gets the jeans off and in their position, and with the risk of discovery, Erik decides it isn't worth an attempt.

“Ah,” Charles moans as Erik works him over, “ah, Erik, yes. God, I would love so much to ride that cock of yours.”

Erik smiles and slips the band of Charles’ briefs back and reaches inside for hot, smooth flesh. “Forget it. It’d take too long to prep you.”

“Oh, fuck,” Charles says, this time loudly enough that Erik glances around even though he knows nobody is there to hear or see. “Oh, fuck, I’ve got to know how true that is.”

Erik rests his thumb on Charles’ foreskin and gently pushes it up and over the head in order to spread more precome around smoothly. Charles gasps and cries again at the stimulation but doesn’t let his pleasure get in the way of reaching into Erik’s briefs in turn.

Though his hands are wide and look clumsy, Charles’ fingers are every bit as dexterous as his tongue. He pulls Erik’s cock out into the humid Portland air and grasps at it, massaging as he feels the shape and length like Erik had done to him. The friction of fingers over Erik’s skin light up nerve endings behind Erik’s eyes and sends thunder through his veins.

“God, I wish I’d sent you for the condoms,” Charles says and wraps his fingers loosely around Erik’s cock. “I would love to suck you.”

Erik shakes his head; Charles is a hypocrite to call him chatty. Erik doesn’t mind though, because hearing Charles moan and talk dirty are turn-ons. “Next time,” he says and starts to pump Charles’ cock in time with the rhythm Charles has established.

From there Erik gives up much of his senses and only focuses on the pleasure of Charles’ hand stroking over his cock with slow-building momentum. Beneath Erik’s hand Charles begins thrusting his hips upward, fucking Erik’s hand with the help of his powerful thighs. Erik wonders what those thighs can do. Charles can probably ride him hard as a jockey and if that isn’t enough probably have the endurance to fuck Erik in turn. It’s been a while since somebody’s had the nerve to paddle Erik’s ass with their hips; he always seems to find the size queens.

Erik wants to hold back, but thanks to his fantasies the rush comes far faster than he’s ready for. The knot in his groin pulls hard and fast and though he tries to stave it off, it hits him out of the blue and suddenly his skin is burning, he’s gasping for air, and his cock is pulsing. The sudden waves of ejaculate make Charles’ grip slippery and even better. Fuck, he hopes the come stays in Charles’ hand rather than all over his pants.

Erik struggles not to pause, to keep his hand going over Charles’ cock. It takes real effort but he perseveres through the contractions of exquisite sensation. Charles, ridiculous Charles, keeps stroking until Erik is forced to sit up and knock his hand away from over-sensitive flesh.

More than anything Erik wants to lay back and enjoy his endorphin rush, but Charles is still hard and gasping for release. It takes longer, thirty seconds or so of Erik pumping Charles’ handsome cock before Charles thrusts his hips into the air one last time and with a gasp and loud cry begins to loose over Erik’s hand. Charles collapses back soon after, panting wildly and with come all over his stomach and Erik’s hand. He moans at each catch of breath and had Erik not just blown his load he would be terribly turned on by the hint of a whine in each exhalation.

As it is, Erik has enough common sense to fetch Charles’ orange knit and use it to mop them up as best he can. The jumper wasn’t particular good at absorbing blood and it isn’t much better at come, but he makes the best of the situation. Thankfully Charles doesn’t complain.

For long moment, Erik stays close to Charles, sharing body heat in the gathering gloom of the evening. He watches Charles’ chest rise and fall as his breath calms and evens out. His eyes are closed but a smile lingers around the corners of his mouth.

It doesn’t take much time for Erik to grow uncomfortable with the lack of movement and the situation itself. Though he didn’t last as long as Charles, languorous post-coital sensations linger, but even those don’t dispel growing uneasiness. He reminds himself that he’s been wanting a hook up and that he’s been lusting after Charles for a while now. It doesn’t help as much as he thought it would.

“You look glum for somebody that just got off,” Charles says from beneath him. “But you can’t expect much from a mutual wank but to take the edge off.”

For some reason the edge is not off, thinks Erik, the edge is sharp and cutting. He pushes his torso up and off Charles and sits on the edge of the bench, his flank barely resting against Charles’ bent leg. “Now that I’ve gotten you out of your head for a bit, you need to think about what you want to do next. I don’t think it’s a good idea to take you back to Raven’s loft.”

Charles shakes his head and pushes his fringe out of his eyes. “I think that’s a good call. Maybe a hotel.”

“No,” Erik says, remembering what Charles had confessed earlier. “You don’t like being left alone. It isn’t all that comfortable, but you can spend the night at my place. You can get some sleep and do some thinking, and if you need to work through any anger you can take it out on my Everlast.”

Charles’ eyes light up with an emotion Erik can’t place, but it seems positive. “Are you sure you want to offer me that?”

“I wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t sure,” Erik says. Once it’s out of his mouth, though, he realizes it’s a lie. “I’m tired, Charles. I just want to sleep some of this week off and you’ll probably want to do the same once the adrenaline runs out.”

“True.” Charles pushes himself up to sit. “I suppose I have a lot to think about.”

Erik slips from the bench and stands. “Sit tight and I’ll go talk to Raven to let her know you’re okay and where you’ll be.”

“I can do that,” Charles says. 

* * *

Charles watches the orange glow of the third floor lighting transform the hatch from a wide shape to a thin angle of light and finally disappear. He presses his back against the wooden slats in the iron bench’s grip and pushes just to feel the old wood creak its resistance.

Toward the ocean the clouds continue to glow sporadically with purple light. It’s getting a little cold with a breeze coming off the ocean; with his jeans open and his briefs damp with sweat and come his balls feel the chill. His chest inflates on a sigh and he zips and buttons his jeans; cold balls are not his idea of a good time. He tucks his shirt in and settles to wait for Erik’s return.

For all sex clears his head with a flood of sensation, Charles wonders at Erik’s quietude afterward. Maybe, Charles thinks, he shouldn’t have pushed the issue, but Erik also said there would be a next time. A next time would be nice; this go round wasn’t the greatest of starters. Not much of a surprise, all things considered. He got what he wanted out of it, but did Erik? He’s not sure what Erik wanted and that’s part of the problem. Maybe Erik wants intimacy? But, no, he really doesn’t seem to be the type.

Charles considers how he opened up to Erik. So many complex emotions well up as the thought cuts him open. Talking about the past is hard enough with Raven, but it didn’t feel as horrible with Erik as he expected. Erik plays his cards so close to his chest they might as well be black-eyed LaBeau’s tattoos. Charles feels it’s possible his cards might be well-hidden, safe even, in Erik’s hand.

There was a hint of Erik’s past in all that. Had he not said he knew what it felt like to try to protect somebody and fail? Something like that, wasn’t it? The wounded dragon on Erik’s chest comes to mind and he wonders if Raven knows who or what Erik lost.

Charles sighs; now he needs a distraction from his distraction. Out of habit, he reaches for his phone to check for messages. He hesitates, pattern on his phone only half keyed. If Erik had a message from Raven then he probably does, too. Charles closes his eyes and chases the sense of well-being that sometimes lingers after orgasm. It’s fading, but despite the growing cold there are a few vestiges left. He keys the pattern to unlock his phone and opens his eyes.

As suspected he has a message from Raven. _I love you even when you’re wrong. I hope you love me even when I’m not beautiful._

That’s the rub, of course. He’s no longer sure he has loved Raven the way he should and the enormity of that realization threatens to crush him if he examines it too closely. Maybe, in a way, he left Raven alone, too. In a way not unlike the physical way everyone else walks out of his life.

Charles finds his knit, sticky with come and crusted with blood, and sits alone in the dark with his thoughts and his ghosts. 

* * *

Nobody says anything untoward when Erik comes back downstairs and pushes his way through the crowd’s press to the smaller bathroom. Jean gives him a significant look, her too-observant gaze going straight to his face, but gives him room when he comes toward her.

He makes quick work of washing his hands of Charles’ scent and then opens his pants and washes away the dried come sticking to his skin and pubic hair. There’s nothing he can do for the spots that soaked into his underwear, but it isn’t like anyone can smell those. Necessary clean up aside, he places a washcloth into the plastic tumbler sitting on the sink with the intention of taking it up to Charles when he’s done down here.

Raven’s not hard to find; she’s in their work area sitting on one of the benches their customers usually use, surrounded by friends and admirers. Hank stands tall and quiet at her back; if he weren’t so awkward he’d be intimidating. When he sees Erik Hank touches Raven’s shoulder and gestures his way.

Raven looks up with an expression that Erik thinks is relief. The makeup on her upper lip is smudged from wine and Morpho’s catering. The makeup looks realistic from afar, but loses its realism the closer he gets and the more her smile distorts it.

Raven stands up from the bench and gives him a hug made awkward by the wine in one hand and the plate in the other.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. That I never told you about my face,” Raven says, resting her forehead just under his neck where Charles’ phantom breath remains. “I’m sorry I made you deal with Charles.”

It takes him a moment to react, to put his arms around her and give her a gentle squeeze. “It’s your show and your body, Raven; you don’t need to apologize for that. But sticking me with Charles was idiotic bullshit. We’re all very lucky I held it together while he freaked out.”

“He got your face,” she says so quietly that it’s a struggle to hear her over the sound system. “I didn’t think he would react like that. Not ever. Are you okay?” In a smaller voice she says, “Is he okay?”

“I don’t know. He needs time to process all this,” Erik says. “I’ll take him to my place to sleep since going back to your place tonight won’t do either of you any good.”

“Where’s he going to sleep? On the couch?” Raven asks and steps back to look Erik in the eyes. She winces at the scratches. “Erik, if you take him to your place he’s just going to try to drown his anxiety in sex.”

A stab of queasiness curdles whatever afterglow he had left and turns Erik’s stomach sour. “Are you telling me not to fuck your brother?”

Raven grimaces and glances down at her wine. “Um. Wow, I guess I’m being like him. I’m actually in favor of the two of you doing more than sex. Sex is the least of it. But he’s still my brother and he has a lot of issues with intimacy.”

“So noted.” He’s glad she can’t smell the sex already on him or see the knot in his gut. What’s done is done. “I can’t keep him up on the roof so if you’ve got Hank for a ride I’ll take the truck and get him out of here. If you need the truck tomorrow you can call or message me.”

“Please be careful, Erik.” Raven says and hugs him again as best as she can with her hands still full. “He’s the only family that’s ever cared about me and you’re my best friend.”

“I know.” There are tears in her eyes when he hugs her back so he says very quietly, “I’m sorry about your dog.”

“My dog? I haven’t had a dog since…” Raven’s eyes widen and her jaw goes slack. All tears are forgotten in her sudden wonder. Her mouth works around what must be three or four attempts at speech before she manages it. “Erik, did he tell you about _Nana_? We never talk about Nana. Oh please, please take care of him. Take good care of him.”

Erik nods but says nothing more, not because he’s skipping a turn in a conversation but because he doesn’t know what he should say. He knew Charles was doing something unusual by telling him the things he had, but he hadn’t thought it was so unprecedented.

Erik gives Raven one last touch, a comforting grip on her shoulder and then turns to his desk. He retrieves his sketchbook, the custom shirt, and his long-sleeved shirt and heads out. Nobody asks him where he’s going; he’s well-known for leaving parties early. 

* * *

“What are you doing?”

Charles looks up from his phone’s screen where he’s been absorbed in his Silk app. He didn’t hear the hatch to the roof open or see the flood of orange light it brought. Erik is walking to him, shirt on and a cup in one hand. He can’t make out Erik’s expression in the dimness, not lit by the open hatch at his back.

“It’s like a game,” Charles says. “It plays ambient music while you draw abstract designs. Maybe you’d like it; it seems like an artistic thing to do.”

He offers his phone and Erik trades him the plastic tumbler which is damp and warm to the touch. There’s no liquid inside, but to Charles’ delight there’s a hot washcloth instead. He forgets his melancholy long enough to kiss Erik’s cheek when he sits down next to him. “This is very considerate, Erik.”

“A girlfriend trained me,” Erik admits as he plays with the app on Charles’ phone. Charles isn’t sure but he suspects that the phone’s backlight is illuminating a look of satisfaction on Erik’s face. At least he hopes that’s what the slightly turned-up lips mean.

He’s thankful for the warmth of the washcloth and for Erik’s absorption in the app as he washes up. There’s plenty of semen that’s dried in the weave of his briefs that won’t come out until he can scrub them more effectively.

“How long have you known you’re bisexual? I mean, I assume you’re bisexual if you had a girlfriend.” Charles isn’t particularly curious, but anything other than Raven is a better topic and this kind of question is nearly always deep enough to absorb his conversation partners.

But Erik only shrugs as he runs his finger over the phone’s screen, drawing webs of lightning as soft music plays. “Since my first blow job; I realized I was equally attracted to male and female mouths. They’re essentially the same.”

Charles laughs quietly despite himself, especially since many of his past lovers have been attracted to his lips. “So you like blow jobs?”

“Who doesn’t?” Erik’s smile is picked out in the phone’s blue light and cool shadows. “But I wouldn’t say I’m particularly attracted to lips. I just never had a clear preference between male and female beauty.”

“No,” Charles says, “that makes sense. I hear the same sort of thing from many artists, no matter the medium they work in. Personally, I was confused in middle school because I was sexually attracted to boys _and_ girls. In high school I knew I could never be a gold star gay man, but then I realized I didn’t have to choose.”

“Raven says you just have no standards,” Erik says. He hasn’t looked up from the app at all, but now his brow is furrowed in concentration as he stares at it. “Sex for you is always casual.”

This is a subject Charles has spoken on many times and in many ways with answers as myriad as Portland’s rain. It’s dangerous because Raven’s name has been invoked; he reasons that a careful tread is the best response. “Often my sex is casual. I enjoy it, so why shouldn’t I indulge? But sex can also be an expression of deep emotional commitment. Sometimes…” And this is the hard part, because it’s an honest answer and honesty leads to vulnerability. “Sometimes what I think of as casual sex is not so casual.”

Charles watches Erik’s face as he speaks and sees the lines on Erik’s brow grow deeper. Is he thinking of their fight at Multnomah when Charles had said Erik was nothing to him? Sometimes Charles falls in love with people he had thought were casual lovers. Erik is nothing like any of Charles’ prior lovers, not even when Charles had a short-lived fancy for rough trade. What is Erik, then? What does he want Erik to be? Obviously he’d been mistaken at Multnomah when he’d said Erik was nothing to him. But what does _Erik_ want to be to Charles?

Charles adjusts his clothing as best he can and turns the orange shirt inside out before folding it. Erik hasn’t said anything and he doesn’t seem to be playing with the phone. His expression is fixed in concentration, his eyes staring through the phone as if he’s zoned out. “Erik?”

The sound of his name brings Erik back, his eyes suddenly blinking, pupils constricting and then dilating again to account for the dimness of the night.

“Shall we go?” Charles asks.

“Yes.” Erik hands the phone back to Charles and takes the lock off his belt loop. “After you.”

The way to Erik’s truck is only punctuated by picking up Erik’s sketchbook and shirt from the stairs and running into Azazel, who they find smoking outside on the sidewalk. The interruption is brief, limited to Azazel giving Charles a hostile look and asking if they’d be back at all. Charles answers easily though he isn’t sure if Azazel’s sneer is evidence of anger over Charles’ violent outburst (justified) or jealousy over Janos or even Erik (bloody hell, no). “No, we’re going to Erik’s place. Don’t wait up.”

Azazel sucks on his cigarette and blows a long stream of smoke after him in reply.

Once they get through the carnival-atmosphere foot traffic, the drive to Erik’s loft is quiet but not uncomfortable; Erik doesn’t even turn on the truck’s radio or mp3 player. Charles is content to slouch in the passenger side and go through his various social media. It suddenly strikes him that Quicksilver has an Instagram feed; he locates and joins its ten thousand followers. He browses the gallery and sees several images that never showed up on Facebook, many of these are far less concerned with concealing nudity. As he looks Charles finds that images rendered in flesh are less disturbing than they used to be. The change in his taste could be attributed to constant exposure to the medium or weariness. Erik’s tattoos in particular are becoming less gruesome.

Erik doesn’t take the elevator when they get to his building. He easily climbs the stairs, taking them two at a time up to the top floor. Charles follows gamely, keeping up despite his shorter legs and is nowhere near winded when Erik draws to a halt outside his door.

“You’re welcome to the first shower,” Erik says as unlocks and pushes the door open onto the darkened room. The lights slowly come up, revealing the room when before all was dark but for the illumination of street lights.

Charles goes along when Erik walks past, barefoot as is his preference, but stops to slip off his boots. Erik goes to the left, down the little hallway where metal sheets are hung gallery-style. Charles notes the square sheets are marked lightly in what appears to be pen; each depicts strange patterns that vaguely remind him of topographical maps. He wants to pause and study the sheets more closely, but Erik ducks into a door on the left and a light soon shines from within.

Charles enters the newly-lit room and finds himself in Erik’s bathroom. It’s a large affair with two sinks, an expensive-looking walk-in shower, and attached wardrobe. Two doors are present; the one he walked through and the other which probably leads to Erik’s bedroom. His attention lingers on the shower; it’s the type with a bench that Charles has always found useful for shower sex.

“You can use any of the soap or other product in there.” Erik says as he retrieves red towels and a bathrobe from the wardrobe. He hangs the towels on the shower’s rack and drops the slate bathrobe on the closed toilet seat. With a wave of his fingers he gestures at the wardrobe. “I doubt any of my pants will fit you, but you might get lucky. When you get out, give me your clothes and I’ll run a load of laundry.”

“Thank you, Erik,” Charles says, trying to load his voice with rarely given sincerity. “I’ll try not to be too much of a bother.”

Erik shrugs and heads out. “Too late for that.”

When he’s finally alone in the shower with water beating down on him, Charles starts to think deep and increasingly dark thoughts. Charles cuts off his circular thoughts by examining the different soaps Erik has in the shower rack. He seems to be partial to wood and ocean-scented shampoos and body soaps. There’s no conditioner which is disappointing, but makes perfect sense as Erik’s hair is shorter. Charles tries to remember the texture of Erik’s hair, but the only time he ever touched it was at Multnomah.

Charles makes the shower quick, towels off with rough strokes, and forgoes the bathrobe in his curiosity for Erik’s wardrobe. Most of Erik’s shirts and pants are on hangers but there’s a dresser within the wardrobe and he finds it full of more decrepit articles of clothing. A few of the shirts are so worn and threadbare that Charles can’t imagine them wrinkling.

It’s a form of modern archaeology, he muses, because many of the clothes are artifacts from Erik’s past. Charles ties the towel around his waist and looks through the shirts for graphics. Most of the old shirts are merchandise for bands or tattoo artists he doesn’t know but at the bottom of one drawer there’s an ancient relic that Charles doubts Erik wears. It’s faded yellow and has a simple light blue text design featuring the logo of a Jewish youth organization.

Charles has seen versions of this shirt before in New York or he wouldn’t recognize it for what it is. He had wondered once before if Erik’s split from religion was painful, but now he thinks it must have been; why else would he keep the shirt? With reverent hands, he slips the shirt back to the bottom of the pile and takes a shirt from the top.

Pants are more of an issue; Erik’s waist is narrow and Charles’ waist is much wider and thighs thick with muscle. The best he can find is a pair of black, drawstring shorts that he doesn’t need to tie and that fit him like a second skin. Fortunately the gray shirt is long enough that he doesn’t look ridiculous. Picking up his shirt, Charles walks out to locate Erik.

Finding him is easy enough; Erik has lit incense and is sitting on his purple couch with a gray and red throw blanket in his hands. He’s staring off into space again.

“Where’s the laundry?” Charles asks carefully.

Erik stands, dropping the throw on the couch to empty his hands for Charles’ dirty clothes. “There’s a laundry room on this floor. Any special instructions?” And then he looks down and a vague smile turns up one corner of his mouth. “I think I have a looser pair of shorts, but those look good on your legs.”

“Are you serious?” Charles says with a laugh. “I’ve worn boxer briefs that were looser than these.”

“You have handsome legs.” Erik says it with a shrug, but the way his eyes linger spell it out; this isn’t some sort of revelation, Erik’s probably been checking out his legs for a while. “The bedroom’s a little cluttered with work material, but you’re welcome to the bed; I sleep on the couch a lot so it isn’t a problem.”

“You could always share the bed with me,” Charles says with a smile. “And admire my handsome legs close up.”

Maybe, Charles thinks, his charm isn’t so poisonous to Erik after all because the blatant, borderline comical, one-liner doesn’t erase Erik’s guarded amusement. Erik glances down again and his little twitch of a smile returns. “Tempting as your legs are, I sleep uneasily. I sometimes kick in my sleep; I’d hate to actually hurt you.”

Charles recalls Raven’s strange way of waking Erik up back at the Rose Garden and wonders what she knows about Erik’s sleeping habits. The thought brings a confusing array of emotions, anger not the least of them. What if Erik hurt Raven the night the two had sex? He pushes down the downward spiral of negativity and forces himself to nod instead.

“Very well. I’ll just get ready for sleep, then.”

Erik nods. “I stripped the bed while you showered, so you’re welcome to it. If you’re hungry, though, you’re welcome to anything in the kitchen. For now I’ll go put your clothes in the wash; I’d like to take a shower right after.”

Charles nods. “Understood.”

Erik turns for the door to the hallway and Charles heads for Erik’s bedroom.

The bedroom is less a bedroom and more a workroom and office, Charles discovers. The bed looks like an afterthought that’s been shoved into the far corner of the room to be forgotten. By contrast, there’s a well-used drafting table against the wall stacked with a few art and anatomy books. Reference photos and sketches are tacked to the wall in front of it. Next to the table is a desk with nothing but a lamp atop it. There are two large gas canisters, an air compressor, shelves full of clear plastic storage containers, and a rolling tool box.

Everything is ruthlessly organized but it doesn’t feel at all like a bedroom. The bed, though, is nice; maybe a little too firm for Charles’ tastes. The comforter and sheets smell of fabric softener and the pillow, he picks it up and inhales deeply, the pillow smells of Erik’s sandalwood shampoo.

Charles sighs and falls back on the bed. He pulls the pillow from his face and stuffs it under his head. For a while he finds himself staring up at the ceiling and following the exposed wires and ductwork. He thinks about Erik’s broad shoulders, his chest, and his dragon and heart tattoo and the flow of movement between the two pieces of imagery. Not a serpent eating its tail but a heart giving life to a dragon giving life to a heart? His head grows fuzzy with the flow, in the background he hears the calming sound of water running; soon his breathing slows and his eyes close.

An unknown expanse of dreamless sleep later, Charles opens his eyes to a dim and unfamiliar bedroom. This is not a first. Thankfully he remembers exactly whose room it is.

The only light comes in through the blinds and is cast by the street lights outside. His bladder is uncomfortable but he has no idea what time it is, so he fumbles around the pillow for his phone until his fingers brush over it. The backlight is blinding. Charles swears softly at the pain stabbing his brain via his pupils. He keys the brightness down and reads a quarter ‘til three. Initially he thinks his bladder can wait another few hours, but several minutes later he capitulates and climbs from Erik’s firm bed.

He does his best to remain quiet in the bathroom. When he’s finished he even considers not flushing the toilet for the noise but the thought is far too abhorrent. Charles flushes despite the noise and heads back to bed. He checks his phone again and finds more notifications for email, various social media, and several messages from his messaging apps.

There are probably more messages from Raven, but he’s too afraid to look at what she has to say. Charles knows he needs to think about her, but even more he needs to think about how he impacts her. Instead of thinking of her, he puts down his phone and slips back out of bed and to the huge windows. Outside the streetlights illuminate light drizzle, creating sparkling orange spheres in the dark street.

Rain and dark and Erik sleeping nearby; it’s in the theme of the rose garden. In fact, even then Erik was sleeping on a bench. Charles turns to the bedroom door and walks quietly down the hall, leaving his phone behind.

The living space’s blinds are open, but Erik’s face is shoved into the back of the couch. A pillow is on the floor and the throw blanket is tangled around his upper body. Both hands are hooked into the fabric, as far as Charles can tell, pulling it away from his throat as if Erik is saving himself from strangulation. However, Erik’s breathing is slow and strong; normal for somebody sleeping.

With the blanket around his upper body, the back of his tank top has been pulled up, exposing the small of Erik’s long back and part of the red tattoo that intersects the black stripe that runs from his shoulder down to his knee. The red stripe itself disappears at an angle under Erik’s sleep pants. Charles smiles softly to himself; does the tattoo passes over both halves of Erik’s muscled ass? It isn’t his usual sex-fueled pondering, but maybe something of sleep-induced amusement.

Charles moves carefully, as quietly as he possibly can. He lowers himself down until he’s sitting next to the couch near Erik’s head. He takes the pillow from the floor and sets it in his lap and rests his forearms thereon. The floor is a bit cold, but Charles feels oddly content. There’s no easy way to explain it, but sitting there in Erik’s slumbering space, Erik’s breathing steady as a metronome, Charles finds he doesn’t feel isolated or alone. With Erik’s presence at his side, Charles finds he can draw Raven to mind. He can think about what their relationship is and explore the possibility that he has been a malignant presence in her life.


	13. Work it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Happy Friday the 13th/Valentine's Day!_
> 
> Three quick things:  
> 1\. I put together a [playlist for the fic](http://8tracks.com/euphorbic/the-boy-with-the-mixtape-on-his-sleeve).  
> 2\. An old favorite shows up in this chapter, but I prefer his comic book version so I described him with that in mind.  
> 3\. I'm bullshitting the erogenous zone thing; it does happen sometimes to people that get nipple piercings but tattoos? No idea.

 

The sun has yet to clear away the clouds or the light drizzle when Erik’s phone starts vibrating in the pocket of his sleep pants. He pats himself down until he finds the right pocket and hits the snooze button. Normally he’d clear the alarm, but normally he would be awake before the alarm even came on. His internal clock is usually reliable.

His crossfit class is in forty-five minutes but his body is telling him to go back to sleep. It’s a simple question; deny himself by snapping up and getting ready for a brutal workout or give in just a little bit? Thursday was hard, after all; he went through far more emotional hoops than he’s used to. From the euphoric realization that he brings good things into peoples’ lives, to anger at Raven for not telling him how serious the situation with Charles could be, to the strange episode on the roof with Charles.

It’s the last bit that galvanizes him.

 _G-tt im Himmel_ , he thinks to himself, _better work out._

He turns over on the couch, tugging the blanket from his shoulders as goes, and swings his legs down and his body up. And promptly discovers Charles sleeping propped against the couch’s side. Even in the summer, Erik’s concrete floor is cool and he’s sure that cool surface will lead to aches in Charles’ muscles.

Without trying to wake him, Erik slips from the couch and scoops Charles up. He swiftly deposits him in the lingering heat he’s left in the couch’s cushions. Charles squints, grimaces sleepily, and brings his hands into a sloppy guard position. Erik laughs at the sight under his breath.

“Go back to sleep, Champ,” Erik says and pulls the blanket up over him. “I have a fitness class this morning; I’ll be back around seven.”

Charles’ response is an unintelligible murmur that only sounds vaguely like English syllables. The blanket is unceremoniously pulled partway up and under his cheek to act like a pillow. Erik finds this amusing as well, but picks the pillow up from the floor and tosses it behind Charles’ knees.

His morning routine is easy enough; carbs, protein, and vitamins, change his clothes and check his messages while coffee brews. He has messages from several people at the show last night; Ororo, Darwin, and Raven are the only ones he checks. Ororo is interested in having Raven show at Incubator, Darwin wants to know what the hell happened, and Raven has sent a host of verbose apologies and a sparsely worded warning that Spain and Russia have erupted into war.

Erik glances at his couch. Obviously Charles was better off staying the night. Shaking his head, Erik goes back to the kitchen for his coffee.

At his class, Erik drives himself as hard as he possibly can and is alternately jeered and taunted by their coach, Logan. Logan is always particularly hard on Erik; he’s Jean’s ex. Erik thinks Logan only puts up with him because he actually liked Erik’s suggestion about how he and Scott could settle the tension between them and Jean.

Between squat jumps, medicine ball sit-ups, handstand pushups, and a whole host of other exercises that push everyone to their limits, Erik is finally able to break free from the lingering tension of Raven’s show. When it’s time to cool down with yoga positions, Erik easily relaxes into a meditative zone; he doesn’t even care that Logan has come close to shadow him or that his chest is aching from Charles’ attack.

When it’s all over, Erik gulps long pulls from his water bottle until he renders it empty. He drapes his towel over his head to cover his eyes; in the dark he reaches out and touches the calm that comes to him when he’s exhausted.

“Trying to kill yourself this morning, Lehnsherr?” Logan’s voice pushes back the calm, if not the dark. “It’s fine, if that’s your thing but don’t do it in here; the sport’s rep is bad enough.”

The calm fades, but it lingers in the edges of the workout’s lethargy and endorphin. Erik looks down his cheekbones to the concrete floor and his bare feet, with the towel limiting his vision, though, he can’t find Logan. Grudgingly he pulls it back just far enough that the hem skims his eyelashes. He looks up from the floor, gaze traveling Logan’s legs, hairy arms, and chest, and finally his face. Erik isn’t sure what he sees on Logan’s hard face, but it isn’t the usual sarcastic expression. “Worried I’ll beat your time for your own workout of the day?”

“Nah,” Logan says and shifts his weight, “I can always make it harder for you. But maybe I think you had some drama last night and maybe I don’t hate you enough to see you dead just yet. Your money’s always on time.”

Erik drops the towel to his shoulder to get a better look at the sturdy trainer. Logan is physically intimidating in every way but height; he makes up for that by being thick, feral-looking, and riddled with hard muscle. His resting expression is a scowl and his hair is styled to emphasize the hard cut of his face. It isn’t a face that takes well to empathy, which explains the tortured expression.

“Logan,” Erik sighs, “take your misplaced concern and Jean’s gossip and fuck off.”

Logan’s response is a slow grin that shows teeth and a bit of a manic spark in his eyes. He claps Erik’s shoulder and gives a short bark of laughter. “Fuck you, too, bub. Glad you’re the same old asshole I’ve come to enjoy riding. But Jean ain’t said shit; it’s the scratches that made me wonder. Somebody got you from behind at that show last night, eh?”

Erik rubs his towel over his shoulder where the unwanted sting of Logan’s massive hand tingles. He’s caught between self-flagellation for giving up information and a squirming sort of appreciation that Logan is letting on that he cares. “I like you better when you’re a dick.”

“Whatever, Lehnsherr,” Logan replies and turns one foot out to step away. “You keep outta trouble and I won’t even ask Jean what went down last night.”

The calm fades, but the pleasantly unpleasant feeling accompanies Erik the whole way back to his loft. It hums along in his gut as the rain patters lightly on his jacket’s hood. Even as Erik vaults up the stairs to his floor with his bicycle over his shoulder and a trail of rain water behind him, he can’t help but wonder at it. He knows he has friends in Raven, Darwin, and Kitty, but could it be other people have invested in him? If so, does it mean he has a positive effect on more than Raven? Maybe Kitty?

Kitty’s penciled in for informal lettering lessons after the London show or Yom Kippur, but even before the lettering show she’s always preferred to make his coffee and she loves drawing on his takeout cups. If Kitty isn’t busy when Erik or Raven call in orders, she’ll even bring them up.

The calm stays where it is, but the bizarre feeling sends out feelers of warmth that have nothing to do with rage or hatred. He rarely feels this way; he hasn’t been so… satisfied? So grounded? He hasn’t felt so good about himself in years. It’s hard to believe that Charles, of all people, started this tiny, pleasant little revolution less than twenty-four hours ago.

Erik lets himself into his apartment and is greeted by the smell of cooking; eggs of some kind. He grabs a towel off the bicycle’s hook and starts wiping the rain water and street dirt off the bike.

“Good timing; I’ve got breakfast going,” Charles calls from the kitchen. “I hope you like French toast!”

Erik is ambivalent about French toast, though his mother—

There’s a squeak of flesh over paint as Erik’s hands twist around the bicycle’s frame. He closes his eyes against the memory. No, he’s making progress. He’s making progress and thoughts of that other time can’t be part of it; they are two worlds that can’t exist together. Even if he believed and a Jubilee year was miraculously possible in his lifetime, Erik knows he can never free himself.

He hangs the bicycle on its hook and sheds his raincoat onto one grip, the towel is dropped on the floor to catch the drip. It feels like an escape when he enters the bathroom for a quick shower to drive away sweat and road dirt.

The sky isn’t much brighter when he comes from the bathroom in his sleep pants with a fresh t-shirt stretched over his torso. The light coming through the arched windows is a blend of orange streetlight and cool, cloud-filtered sunlight. It makes a strange dichotomy in the living room of orange and blue-ish light and shadow. The kitchen though is warm with artificial light and the smell of Charles’ cooking.

Charles is already seated at the kitchen island where, not many days ago, Erik saw him flinch at the drawing of a kitchen knife. One of Erik’s cheap plates sits on the kitchen island, piled high with French toast; Charles has already mostly devoured the slice on the plate before him. Just across from him is an empty plate paired with a steaming cup of coffee.

“All I could find was decaf,” Charles says tentatively. Charles is usually sure of himself, if not unbearably arrogant; the uncertainty in his voice is baffling.

“Good,” Erik replies. “Does that mean you dumped the coffee I made this morning?”

“Of course; it was at least an hour cold by the time I found it.” Charles bites his lip and hunches over his plate. “Was it the last of your regular coffee?”

“No,” Erik says with an amused shake of his head. “But I would have reheated it. Is that why you look worried?”

As if noticing his pensive body language for the first time, Charles straightens up and pushes his shoulders back slightly. Strangely enough, Charles wearing the shirt he slept in, but the jeans from the day before.

“You were so quiet when you came in,” Charles says, lightening up. “I thought maybe you didn’t like French toast. I made sure it was Kosher before I started.”

Erik rolls his eyes at that, but doesn’t fight the smile pulling at one corner of his mouth. He picks up his fork and stabs one of the slices of bread and brings it to his plate. “Everyone likes French toast, Charles.”

“But you never seem to like anything,” Charles returns, his apprehension replaced with cheek. “You identify with the Grinch.”

Erik uses his fork to cut off a corner of the toast and spears it. He holds the roughly triangular piece up and looks it over critically. “I have cinnamon. Huh. There’s ginger marmalade in the fridge that might go well with this.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.” Charles immediately vacates his seat and goes straight for the item in question. Erik takes advantage of Charles’ turned back to put the bread in his mouth; it’s better than expected. Yes, he definitely has cinnamon and, even more surprising, vanilla extract. Maybe he can attribute it to all the times Raven came over to use his kitchen.

Charles returns with the ginger marmalade and happily opens the jar and spoons some out onto his toast. “I know you said I could get into anything, but I’ve heard that before and still managed to aggravate people when I did exactly that.”

A nod is all Erik gives Charles in reply. He’d much rather stuff his mouth with more breakfast. Even though it’s not a dish he usually seeks it’s better than any he’s had in years.

While Erik directs his attention to making steady inroads into breakfast, Charles spends most of the time watching him. “I’ve been thinking a lot.”

Of course he has. Erik nods and swallows another well-chewed bite. “I know; you said you would.”

Charles’ gaze drops down to his plate and the morsel of toast he’s soaked in marmalade. “About Raven, of course, but I thought about you, too.”

Erik forces himself not to hesitate; he glances up casually from his plate and lifts his brow in question. “Oh?”

“Yes.” Charles looks up from his toast and catches Erik’s eyes; there’s no hesitation left in Charles’ gaze. “Does your red tattoo cover both sides of your arse?”

No hesitation, but plenty of mischief. Charles pops his bite of toast in his mouth as if punctuating the dot at the bottom of a question mark.

“Subtle.” Erik rolls his eyes and answers anyway. “It stops two thirds of the way across.”

“Did it hurt?” Charles asks after swallowing his toast.

“Don’t be stupid,” Erik says, voice flat with long-suffering. If he’s heard this question once he’s heard it thousands of times. “I had needles puncturing my skin over and over.”

“Which one hurt the most?” Charles is smiling over his fork like he knows exactly what he’s doing. Maybe he does.

“My nipple.” That had been no joke; he’d been relieved when Raven’s design placement cleared the other one. Covering his nipple was probably the truest test of a pain threshold Erik can imagine. It’s not something he recommends.

“At least you came out of it with an erogenous zone.” Charles glances significantly to Erik’s tight shirt where, sure enough, his nipples are showing through.

Erik’s not sure if Charles is trying to seduce him with cheesy dialogue or if it’s actually working because it’s just that terrible. There’s a certain charm to be found in a handsome man or woman that can spin out kitschy lines with confidence in their purposeful badness.

“If you’re angling for a fuck,” Erik replies and fights back with bluntness, “then your timing isn’t very good; I usually have to take a shit about half an hour after I eat.”

It works; Charles’ nose wrinkles in disgust. “If I was you’ll never know now.”

Amused despite himself, Erik continues to eat Charles’ cooking. Charles doesn’t lose his appetite after Erik’s crudeness, either. They eat in comfortable silence and then Charles follows behind as Erik clears their dishes and takes them to the steel sink. There’s a dishwasher, of course, but Erik only runs it enough to keep it maintained. Charles says nothing at first, but he loiters just behind, watching Erik fill one side of the sink with water and a splash of dish soap.

Perhaps Charles grows uncomfortable with the lack of conversation or Erik’s focus shifting from him to the dishes. Whatever it is, he begins to speak again.

“I had a few messages from Raven,” Charles says. “She said Janos and Azazel are fighting. She, Hank, and Sean took Janos to a hotel for the night after Azazel left. She doesn’t want me to stay the night there tonight unless things with those two get better or Azazel leaves town.”

Erik nods; he knew something of that already. “What about the two of you?”

If not for the water running, Erik thinks he would hear Charles’ sigh. “She’s going to come by later to pick up the Frontier. We’ll talk then, but I don’t think we’ll need to talk about it much.”

Erik reaches out and pushes down firmly on the water lever to turn it off. “What does that mean?”

“It means…” Charles takes a breath and Erik grabs one of his white dish towels and turns around. Charles’ is staring down where he’s laced his fingers together, both palms face his midriff, thumbs pointing up. Erik can’t read his expression; is it vulnerability? Embarrassment? Defensiveness? All of the above? “It means I’m convinced I’ve been doing something very wrong with Raven. I’ve been thwarting her agency by punishing her every time she chooses something I disagree with. I’ve been playing parent and we _both_ very much need me to stop doing that.”

Charles’ fingers are rigid, bent at their middle joints to form the peaks of a bony mountain range. He’s still looking down, but Erik thinks that if he’s looking at anything it isn’t his hands.

“That must have been hard.” Erik leans back against the kitchen bench with the towel and slowly dries his hands.

Beyond Charles, on the other side of the windows, the morning has deepened in shades of orange. Erik spares a thought; there must be a gap in the clouds to the east. He’s wanted Charles to come to this point since the first day they met, but now that Charles seems to have arrived, so to speak, Erik feels uncomfortable. It’s not easy to be the one Charles talks to first.

“It was a bit,” Charles says with a sigh. He unlaces his fingers and clutches instead at his elbows. “You said it a couple times, more or less, though; that I already knew but hadn’t admitted it to myself. I guess I suspected several months ago when Raven sent me copies of her bank statements, but then you told me how she made other sacrifices and then I saw some of that with my own eyes.”

Even though Erik’s hands are dry, he finds himself rubbing the towel back and forth against his hands longer than necessary. Erik says nothing, he doesn’t need to, so he nods and watches Charles struggle and occasionally glances out the windows where the red brick building across the street glows with morning sun reflected off unseen clouds.

“But, maybe worst of all,” Charles continues. He finally looks up, his eyes zeroing in directly on Erik’s face. “Last night I have no idea what I thought I was going to do. Cover her up? Hide her away? Store her in the attic of some ivory tower? And I was so consumed that I lost all control. I behaved like an animal. A very sick animal that attacked a… complete bastard, but perhaps a good-hearted one.”

A soft snort of laughter leaves Erik at that, but he doesn’t rise to the bait. He looks back at Charles and drops his hands to his hips. Charles is still looking at his face, specifically the scratches near his eye.

“I’ll have to be very diligent not to repeat the same mistakes,” Charles says quietly, “because I don’t think my instincts will ever change. I’ve been like this for over twenty years already.”

There can never be a statement Erik empathizes with more than the one Charles has just given voice. He fills his lungs with a deep breath of air and tosses the white towel behind him onto the bench. He pushes off and walks forward to stand within reach. Charles’ looks away, but doesn’t give up ground. It’s all the permission Erik needs; he reaches up and lays both hands on Charles’ strong shoulders. “You can’t do this kind of thing alone, Charles. You need help.”

Charles’ focus comes straight back to Erik; his chest fills with air and pupils dilate in obvious interest. “Oh?”

“Yes,” Erik replies. “I know one of the best psychologists in New York. She can refer you to one of her colleagues, maybe even someone in Oxford.”

Charles deflates at Erik’s offer; his eyes close and his shoulders fall. “Right. That’s sweet of you, Erik, but I don’t think it’s really necessary. I know quite a few psychologists myself. Though,” his eyes open again and he smiles a very little bit, “is this psychologist someone you’ve tattooed?”

“No,” Erik says, and now his voice has lost its previous strength. “No, we were introduced.”

“Girlfriend?” Charles asks, in a tone Erik remembers from the night before, on the roof.

“No, never,” Erik replies in automatic distaste. No, Dr. Frost never excited him, not knowing her the way he did. “She’s beautiful, though.”

Charles reaches up to Erik’s hands and lifts them off his shoulders and draws the fingertips to his mouth. He kisses them, lips soft and gentle. “Yes, you were right earlier; my timing is indeed off. However, why don’t you come take a nap with me after you finish the dishes? You don’t have any appointments today, do you?”

Erik takes his hands away from Charles only to lace them together at the back of Charles’ neck. Even with Charles’ shoulders relaxed, he can feel tension in him. “Not until tonight, but I still need to clean the shop. There’s probably wine and champagne sticking to the floors and trash dumped in the vase by the door. And even if I could, I can’t sleep next to anybody.”

Charles shakes his head and takes Erik’s arms away again. “Fine, I’ll wash your dishes but you really should take a nap; you look like you need the sleep.”

“It’s almost Saturday; I can nap at Quicksilver,” Erik says, but Charles widens his footing and then places his hands on Erik’s hips and forces him toward the living space. With Charles’ lower center of gravity, destabilizing grappling point, and strong legs, Erik would have to resort to full body contact to resist Charles’ advance.

“Erik, seriously, my friend,” Charles says as Erik struggles to keep his balance and half slides, half shuffles, back. “You need some sleep. Go. I’ll wake you by nine.”

Erik shakes his head and backs up quickly to maneuver out of Charles’ grip. He raises his hands in acquiescence. “Fine, fine. I’ll set my phone for half an hour. Don’t come wake me up; if I sleep through then I needed the sleep.”

Back in his bedroom, Erik sets his phone’s alarm and throws himself down on his bed with his face to the wall. Something comes to mind as he lies there, drifting between sleep and contemplation. He thinks back to Raven and what she said about giving up one-night stands for commitment. Not many people are capable of choosing to go for the sort of change it sounds like Charles wants to make. If Charles can do that and bring positiveness into Erik life, then maybe that day at Multnomah wasn’t a fluke.

Erik sighs and looks at the shadow his body casts on the wall before him. Maybe Raven’s right and he told Charles about sex with her because his subconscious wants to try commitment once more.

* * *

As soon as Erik has left the kitchen area and his quiet steps have faded from hearing, Charles turns to the sink. He plunges a hand into the sink full of dishes and pulls out the stopper to drain the soapy water. Taking a calm grounding breath in through his nose, he opens the dishwasher and starts loading it. It’s a pleasant surprise that they’ve not only avoided any arguments this morning but that Erik has even capitulated to Charles’ advice that he get some sleep.

It’s been remarkably pleasant and genuinely intimate between them. It’s just too bad that Erik thinks he needs a shrink; nothing is further than the truth. Now that he’s accepted the problem, he can work on reversing his behavior on his own. It would be nice if Erik had offered to be the person to aid him instead of foisting some New York charity worker at him. Erik might be an internationally-known tattoo artist, but that will never make him a scholar and that means Erik has no idea the sort of people in the psychology field Charles can tap.

But he means well. Erik means well and Charles is sure that offering this contact was no small matter. Erik has given him shelter and care even after Charles physically attacked him. Even after hearing about Charles’ childhood and insecurities, Erik still sought clarification on Charles’ sexual overtures. No, Charles thinks, sometimes sex isn’t so casual. The sex he is considering with Erik isn’t the casual kind; it’s the sort of sex that is terrifyingly intimate. If he’s decoding Erik correctly, there’s a chance that’s what Erik wants, too.

How did Erik know a psychologist though? He must have been a client back in New York; maybe for anger management that came of an assault charge. From everything he’s heard and read about Erik, he’s actually much tamer now. Perhaps the psychologist did him a world of good. Charles is just glad he doesn’t have the kind of problem that would require psychologists or therapists.

Charles finishes loading the dishwasher and starts going through the cabinets for the machine’s dish soap. When he finds the small, barely-touched box, he pries out a few chunks with an expression of distaste; why even have detergent if you aren’t going to use it? All the same, he puts the chunks into place and sets the machine to run.

Charles wanders to Erik’s couch and drops the pillow and throw into his lap. He takes out his phone and checks for the time; he wants to wait fifteen minutes before he sets his next plan in motion. In the meantime he rereads Raven’s messages but only decides to reply to one from the night before.

_I loved you even when you weren’t as beautiful on the outside as the inside, but I’ve done a terrible job expressing that. I’m both looking forward to (and dreading) seeing you; it’s hard to admit my mistakes._

A reply comes five minutes later while Charles searches the couch’s upholstery for any sign of dumpster living. Embarrassed even though he hasn’t actually been caught scrutinizing Erik’s furniture, Charles looks at the message: _I love you no matter what and I know you love me, too. I’m scared but hopeful! See you later today._

Charles brushes a thumb over the message, highlighting it through the nature of the touchscreen. His thumb goes back and forth, portions of the message are selected and deselected via his warm touch. He sits quietly for several more minutes before he drops the phone onto the couch and stands up.

Locating Erik’s phone is simple enough; he’s placed it on his desk in his crowded, yet strictly-organized, room. A new book has appeared beneath it; one of Erik’s many sketchbooks. Charles picks the phone up and walks back out of the room to place it on the couch with his. He drops the throw and pillow on them for good measure.

Back in Erik’s room again, Charles looks around, disgruntled; it isn’t much of a bedroom for all it holds a bed. It’s certainly one of the most ruthlessly organized artist rooms he’s ever slept in but the only really personal touches it holds are the references pinned to the wall in front of the drafting table and the dings and scratches in the wood of the desk.

The bed is probably an IKEA buy; if Erik put him on a dumpstered mattress he’ll be furious. But, no, it smelled and felt fine. The pillow was a little flat and the mattress firm, but the smell of Erik’s shampoo was the only thing he really noticed.

Erik is lying on the bed, nose once again tucked toward the wall away from the growing light outside. The indirect light waxes and wanes, giving evidence of a partly cloudy sky; Charles hopes it stays sunny like the last couple weeks he’s been here.

It’s sad to finally realize he does indeed have growing feelings for Erik only now that he leaves in a few days. Perhaps, he thinks, he should push his flight back a week or so to explore those feelings.

Until then, though, he closes the gap between them until he’s standing right next to the bed, his shadow thrown over Erik’s hip. With considerable caution and his boxing reflexes standing by, Charles eases his weight onto the edge of the bed. It’s a good mattress; none of his movements are transmitted across it’s width to Erik’s sleeping form.

Charles pulls his shirt up his torso and drops it next to the bed. Slowly, as slowly as his muscles are able, he leans over to lay down on the edge of the bed beside Erik. It’s risky, but he counts on Erik not being in such a deep level of sleep that waking up won’t unleash some kind of horrible primal reaction.

Those calculations pay off when Erik turns from his side to his back and turns his head to look blearily at Charles.

“It’s been about thirty minutes, go take your shit,” Charles says quietly.

Erik’s brow furrows in confusion. “I slept through my alarm?”

“Shush,” Charles says, because he suddenly feels very averse to telling an explicit lie. “You kept asking me about casual sex last night. Honestly, last night, it was little more than me just using your interest as a convenience. But I’d like to, I suppose, if you’re interested, have not so casual sex with you. I would prefer that last night was more of an outlier. You don’t have to do anything, I’d be happy to do it all.”

Erik lifts a hand and rubs at his eyes with his knuckles. “Not so casual sex? Is that formal sex?”

Charles slaps Erik’s stomach lightly. “You prick, I’m trying to be sensitive and caring here.”

Erik takes the hand from his eyes and looks at Charles again. “I gathered. Thought it was a strange dream.”

“Bastard,” Charles says fondly. He watches Erik’s face carefully for clues and sees Erik’s lips compress, the lift at the corners of his mouth. He wonders if this is what J.M. Barrie meant about having a kiss hidden in the corner of one’s mouth.

Eyes focused on Erik’s lips, Charles watches them part to say, “I’m willing to give it a try dream-Charles.”

A small breath of laughter escapes him at that. “Tell me you have condoms and slick, dream-Erik; I want to give that great protuberance of yours a go.”

“My protuberance?” Now Erik’s lips have stretched wider, his teeth are showing in his smile. “You reached into the thesaurus of your mind and selected protuberance?”

“Oh, come now.” Charles rolls over to overlap Erik’s side and look down at his face. The scratches don’t look so bad now that he sees them up close. “It’s your dream, I can’t be blamed for anything I say.”

“I can’t decide if I should wake up,” Erik says and carefully moves Charles up from his chest, but slips a leg between Charles’ and lifts his knee between Charles’ thighs. “Or bear with the terrible dialogue for the sex.”

“I think you should try to suffer through.” Charles leans down, weight on his elbows, Erik’s hands on his pale chest, and gently kisses one of the scratches. “Because dream-me is very invested in doing things right.”

Erik says nothing and the smile stays in place, though it becomes more subtle and fond. He takes one hand from Charles’ chest and lifts it to run through Charles’ hair. He tugs on the ends lightly. Charles pulls against Erik’s grip, enjoying the tension on his scalp until Erik releases him.

“Does this mean you’re open to a wet dream?” Charles says into what feels like a comfortable silence. “There may be nocturnal emissions, you know.”

That prompts a small snort of laughter that in turn fills Charles’ heart with warmth and pride. Teasing out Erik’s sense of humor is all the more pleasurable for its rarity. “Since the real you is probably on my couch with your phone, I think I can clean up with none the wiser.”

“Excellent.” Charles presses his lips in a quick peck against the tip of Erik’s nose. “Though I guess these would be diurnal emissions since the sun is up.”

“You’re using plural,” Erik replies and shifts up to push Charles gently to his side again. “I’m glad dream-you is so optimistic.”

“Me, too.” Charles tugs at Erik’s shirt. He wants to see Erik naked, a colorful work of male beauty against the white canvas of the sheets. “Take this off.”

With a nod, Erik sits up and draws the shirt up and over his head. The ripple of muscle, even the creases of skin at Erik’s waist as he bends, sends a cavalcade of lust from Charles’ heart and groin. His eyes dart immediately to the dragon and then to the heart and back to the dragon again. There’s something off about the dragon and the colorful wash of mist. The wounded dragon looks darker; it has a darker, mottled sort of purple halo.

“That’s where you hit me,” Erik says as he lies back again. “Not as noticeable as the scratches.”

The spread of warm, smoky lust fades away at the sight. For once Charles says nothing; he glances up at Erik’s face and then he slowly places his fingertips against the dark purple mark. “In the course of playgrounds and boxing I’ve given and received plenty of bruises, but it was always intentional. This, though, wasn’t intentional; this was madness. God, Erik, I am so sorry.”

Even as he’s speaking, Erik takes hold of Charles’ hand and presses it flat over the bruise. Charles can feel firm flesh and a heartbeat. Oddly enough, Erik’s expression isn’t dark or aggressive; his eyes are piercing as ever, though, and drive into Charles with the intensity and precise nature of a laser. “You fucked up and you hurt me and that’s something that _should_ hurt you. You deserve that. But it isn’t the most noteworthy part of us knowing each other.”

Charles can’t help but look away. It’s true, he knows it’s true but the worst part isn’t knowing he’s done wrong, it’s knowing that Erik is clearly not going to hold a grudge. That’s harder to deal with; it’s a foreign thing, this decency from somebody he thinks he wants. He doesn’t look for decency in his lovers, after all, he just looks for…

He doesn’t know what he looks for. The absurdity of the realization is sobering. If it wouldn’t hurt his image he thinks he really might consider a shrink.

“You can think about it later when I wake up.” Erik’s voice brings Charles out of his self-castigation. “Are you going to give me that wet dream or not?”

Given an obvious out, Charles looks back at Erik’s face with gratitude. “I’m not so sure I want you to wake up now.”

“You talk too much,” Erik replies and pulls Charles’ face to his by the back of his head.

Introspection driven away by the promise of sex, Charles pours himself into kissing Erik. He closes his eyes and surrenders to the feel of Erik’s tongue slipping back and forth at the seam of his lips. It’s an intense sensation; Charles’ lips are sensitive. He parts them and licks out, catching the underside of Erik’s tongue with the tip of his own.

Then they tilt their heads and the kiss grows immediately deeper, heated, and wet. Teeth only rarely enter into the exchange but air is caught, heated, and shared freely.

Slowly, while Charles sucks at Erik’s tongue in gentle suggestion, Erik pushes forward and Charles allows himself to be guided back to the mattress. When Charles is on his back, Erik lifts up on his elbows and looks down, eyes dark with the growing diameter of his pupils. Charles licks his lips and smiles.

“I’m going to get condoms and lube,” Erik says. His voice is quiet, decisive, and even though it’s a relatively neutral sentence and delivery, Erik’s gaze transforms the words into a statement of purpose.

“Can you take off your pants first?” Charles tries for bashful but he’s not sure he can pull that off believably. “I want to see what your tattoos look like when you move.”

“Bullshit.” Erik says as he slides from the bed. “You just want to see me naked.”

“I’ll get that either way!” Charles retorts, but he can’t help the grin that’s pulling at his mouth.

Erik complies, though. He slips his thumbs into the waistband of his pants and pulls them down his legs in one swift movement. Charles groans because of course Erik isn’t wearing underwear. Charles forgets the tattoos instantly, his eyes drawn immediately to Erik’s penis. It’s a long, thickening affair framed with pale skin on one side and the black stripe that runs down Erik’s body on the other.

“No, you just wanted to see my dick,” Erik says by way of correction.

“One track mind, I’m afraid,” Charles replies sweetly. His eyes stay trained on the circumcised length; he licks his lips again like he can already taste it. “It’s a very nice dick, Erik.”

“Unfortunately,” Erik scoffs.

“Unfortunately?” Charles can hardly believe his ears. How would anybody be unhappy with the lovely specimen Erik has? Unless maybe he’s hurt past lovers who weren’t properly prepared?

“Most of the men I go to bed with turn out to have an inner size queen,” Erik explains. “And I wouldn’t trust a one-night stand to peg me, so I do most of the fucking.”

A rush of heat from embarrassment and desire tangles and then spreads down through Charles’ chest and up across his cheeks. “Guilty as charged, but give me a moment to think of a compromise.”

Erik’s brow rises in curiosity, but then he turns around to head into the bathroom. For a moment Charles’ intended train of thought stalls out, because at long last he finally beholds the full view of Erik’s ass. There’s more muscle than padding to be found which is a shame, but still, his ass is glorious and the red paint stripe does indeed cross over one ass cheek and then ends half way across the other. Ah, but how deep between the valley of Erik’s ass cheeks does the stripe descend?

It only takes a few steps for Erik to vanish into the bathroom and when he does he closes the door behind him. Deprived of the sight of his soon-to-be lover Charles closes his eyes and replays Erik’s movements in his head. Erik’s back has more tattoo coverage but it’s the red stripe that has captured Charles’ attention. He finds himself longing to grip each lean ass cheek and pull up on them to test the weight on his palms. Maybe that would be a nice option if he does, indeed, fuck Erik.

And that’s when the perfect plan presents itself to Charles; the perfect plan that involves both of them, particularly Erik, getting what they want.

Erik’s in the bathroom longer than Charles expects and doesn’t emerge until long after the toilet flushes. When he comes back he brings a basin of hot water, two towels, and carries a strip of three condoms in his teeth. He looks good walking naked to the bed, his flaccid cock swinging back and forth with the motion of his long thighs.

“Three?” Charles asks as Erik sets the hot water down on the floor with the towels. Bobbing along in the water Charles spies the mentioned lubricant; it’s a nice touch since the water will heat the slick up. Cold lubricant can be nice sometimes, but he’s not in the mood for it now.

Erik drops the strip on the bed. “One for each of us and a spare if one rips.”

“This is a level of preparedness I don’t often see.” Charles picks up the strip of three and separates them out. “Do you think we’ll be trading places?”

Erik shrugs and remains by the bed, hands moving to rest at his hips. “I don’t know what you have in mind as a compromise.”

Charles sets the condoms aside and sits up to take Erik’s wrists; one tattooed and the other not. “You, my friend, are going to fuck me. But,” he squeezes Erik’s wrists gently but firmly, “there’s a good reason for that.”

Erik’s lips thin, but he nods along. “You have my attention.”

Charles pulls at Erik’s wrists until he sits down on the edge of the bed. “You are going to fuck me exactly the way _you_ would like to be fucked.” Charles releases Erik’s wrists and reaches up to press a hand to one side of Erik’s face. “And then tonight or tomorrow, whenever you like, I am going to give you exactly what you give me.”

For the space of a single heartbeat Erik’s expression stills and Charles’ stomach uses that heartbeat to drop in panic. But then Erik turns his head and kisses Charles’ palm.

“Charles,” Erik’s breath is hot and humid in Charles’ palm, “I like rough sex. Are you okay with that? That’s how I like to give it and, when I have a chance, that’s how I like to receive it.”

“I am nothing if not adventurous,” Charles says and runs his fingers over the smooth contour of Erik’s upper and then lower lip. Erik opens his mouth and bites down gently on Charles’ middle finger as it reaches the center of his bottom lip. “And very experienced.”

A little too experienced, Charles thinks, because he doubts Erik has anything up his sleeves, textile or ink, that can possibly surprise him. That’s the only part of his sex life that he can really call a shame; there’s not much in the way of new territory. Those thoughts skitter away when Erik’s teeth close a little harder and his tongue strokes in firm little flicks on the captured fingertip.

Well, so much for no new territory to be explored, Charles thinks and then his finger is released and Erik’s palm is on Charles’ chest. He’s pushed firmly back. Charles allows himself to hit the mattress with enough force to bounce slightly. He laughs softly as Erik smiles down at him in a manner that is heartwarmingly boyish. His long-fingered hand remains on Charles’ chest, hot and steady.

“I like this idea,” Erik says. It’s all the warning Charles has before Erik grabs the top of Charles’ expensive jeans and pulls them down with his underwear over his hips, thighs, and knees.

To Charles’ further surprise, Erik leaves the denim at Charles’ knees and lifts his hands up to palm the pale skin of his thighs. Erik digs his fingers in, and while it is a little strange, it feels undeniably pleasant to have Erik’s massage the thick muscles. “If these are more than just for show,” Erik murmurs with unconcealed hunger, “you’ll make me very happy when you return the favor.”

The comment sends blood rushing down to Charles groin but also releases a shaking sigh straight from his chest. “Ah, yes, I guess you’ll see.”

Then the denim is pulled off and Erik climbs straight back up his body to lay his mouth over Charles’ once more. The kissing heats Charles’ blood, but fire warms his veins when Erik lowers his hips to press his lower body against Charles’. The brush of Erik’s pubic hair against his hardening cock is titillating but Erik’s dick caressing the sensitive skin of his thighs is maddening.

Charles pushes up into the kiss, driving his tongue against Erik’s and Erik puts a hand on his shoulder and presses him back down. He licks at, then scrapes his teeth over, Charles’ lips. God, his lips, how had he known that his lips were so sensitive?

Hoping to distract Erik from this exploitation, Charles’ runs his hands up Erik’s stomach to his chest and rubs at his nipples. The following gasp for air frees Charles’ mouth to suck open-mouthed kisses at Erik’s cheek and bite ungently at his jaw. The pressure on his shoulder abates as Erik reaches between them to pull Charles’ hand away from his unmarked nipple and down their bodies, over Charles’ lifting cock, and to Erik’s.

Charles hides a smile against Erik’s jaw. He heeds the unsubtle hint and maneuvers Erik’s cock up from the press of his thighs. It’s a formidable thing even though it isn’t completely erect; Charles wants it in his body; mouth, ass, whatever. For now he plays with it; drags his fingers up the length in lingering strokes and ends each motion by running his thumb along the head’s flared circumference. Whether it’s the attention he’s giving Erik’s nipple or dick, said dick is definitely hardening fast.

Above him Erik leaves off hunting Charles’ lips to close his eyes and bite down on his own lower lip.  It’s an endearing expression of pleasure. Charles leans up and runs his tongue over the indentations Erik’s teeth are making in his skin. Poor man, they’re not even fucking yet and he’s already enduring a sensual two-pronged attack.

“You’re so expressive,” Charles whispers. “Beautiful. I can’t wait to see your face when you’re in me.” Will Erik bite his lips raw? Charles heats up even more with the thought.

Despite distraction Erik slides his fingers around Charles’ shaft and pulls it up between them. He carefully manages Charles’ foreskin so it doesn’t fully reveal the sensitive head too soon and begins to stroke. For a man that has no foreskin Charles gives Erik points for knowing how to use one in bed. Charles groans as Erik uses the delicate skin as a barrier for rubbing a little more firmly with his thumb.

For good measure Charles pinches Erik’s nipple even harder. Unexpectedly, Erik curses and rears away. His hand leaves Charles’ cock to the push against the bed and support himself over Charles’ torso.

“Too hard?” Charles asks, hand now languidly stroking at Erik’s dick. It can’t have been too horrible; Erik’s growing erection hasn’t diminished in the slightest. “I thought you wanted rough?”

Erik shakes his head. “I like to work up to the rough stuff. But that’s not it; it’s sore from last night.”

Charles’ gaze flicks to the black skin and he makes a face. Of course. It doesn’t look sore because it’s not red, but looking between the two he can see the nub of Erik’s tattooed nipple is swollen in comparison.

Charles releases Erik’s cock and pushes himself up on his elbows to lick the tender surface. The silky skin is warm and tastes faintly coppery. Erik relaxes back into Charles’ space; he exhales a labored breath. It must hurt but it’s probably the good kind. As an extra measure of care Charles closes his lips over the nipple and gently swirls his tongue around the abused flesh. When he finally pulls away, Erik’s eyes are closed again and his nipple is shiny with saliva.

“I’m sorry,” Charles says and means it.

Erik opens lust-dark eyes and nods. His gaze travels down Charles’ body, perhaps to take an inventory of what Charles’ body has available. This time his appraisal stops at Charles’ cock rather than his thighs. He reaches for it again, closes his fingers around the shaft, and begins to stroke. Charles makes a noise at that, it feels good, but keeps his eyes on the vision of Erik jacking him off. The warmth and friction of Erik’s skin rubbing against his brings tiny sounds to Charles’ gasps which increase in volume as Erik proceeds.

Feeling weak with the continuing stimulation, Charles falls back onto the bed. Erik shifts up and quickly moves into the space Charles left behind. He kneels over him and drops one of the condom packets onto Charles’ chest. There’s no hesitation; Charles tears it open immediately and withdraws the condom.

“Me or you?” he asks between pants.

Erik doesn’t reply. He takes the condom out of Charles’ hand and backs down Charles’ body. When he’s over Charles’ thighs again Erik’s lips form a dark smile that remains in his eyes when he places the condom in his mouth. One hand anchored on Charles’ thigh and the other on the base of Charles’ cock, Erik ducks down and administers the condom orally.

Charles answers his own question with helpless abandon. “Oh God, it’s me. Oh fuck, yes, it’s me.”

Erik’s mouth is hot and wicked and graduates Charles from breathy gasps straight into moans. Erik’s sucking is firm and sure. The condom is no barrier whatsoever to the heat of his mouth or the pressure of his lips or tongue.

“Fuck, Erik,” Charles gasps, lifting up on his elbows again to watch Erik’s mouth slide up and down the darkening length of his cock. He’s not sure he’s ever had a lover that was quite this commanding in his blowjobs. Erik’s hand is hard on his thigh, fingers digging in, as he levers himself up and down Charles’ dick and sucks him like a passionate machine.

The heat, the friction of skin, the sight of Erik’s cheeks hollowing out on every backward stroke; it’s so good Charles can feel his groin tightening up and his skin flushing fast with heat. “Oh fuck, oh Erik, God. Is this—” He cries out with a jolt of piercing pleasure when he feels Erik’s thumb rub circles against his perineum. “Ah! Is this how you like it?”

Erik pulls off Charles’ cock with a hard suck that leaves his lips and chin wet with saliva. “Yes.”

As he speaks, Erik reaches for the bottle of lube that had been floating in the warm water and hands Charles another condom packet. “If at any point you’re uncomfortable, you stop me.”

It’s all Charles can do to tear his gaze away from Erik’s swollen lips in order to open the second packet. “I will, just please fuck me.” He holds out the condom but Erik doesn’t take it yet; he’s too busy applying lube to his fingers and then slathering it under Charles’ balls, onto his very willing asshole. Charles can’t help himself, he pushes against Erik’s fingers when the opportunity presents itself.

Erik smirks at that and slaps his thigh. He takes the condom and quickly rolls it down his cock. “Turn over and get up your knees or however’s most comfortable for you.”

Charles is quick to roll onto his stomach and fling his knees wide. He keeps his forearms on the bed so his ass is high and open. His cock is hard and his balls ache; he shivers in desire as the loft’s cool air hits his sac.

Even though he’d prefer Erik to rush through all the preparations, has done so himself in his weaker, selfish moments, Erik’s pace is maddeningly efficient. He massages Charles’ anus with one patient and thoroughly lubed thumb before he places it on the opening and presses. Thinking himself clever, Charles pushes once again and this time takes Erik’s thumb inside right down to the second joint. Even though it really isn’t enough, the sensation of finally taking hot flesh into his body makes him gasp. When Erik doesn’t pull away, Charles moans wantonly and rocks back and forth, fucking himself uselessly on Erik’s finger.

Charles only gets a few strokes in, enough to underline just how unfulfilling it is, when Erik pulls his hand away.

“God, please don’t tease,” Charles pleads. But then both of Erik’s thumbs return, slicker than ever, and press in again. It’s good, better when Erik spreads his thumbs out to stroke him inside. Charles understands what Erik is doing and, really, it’s totally unnecessary to be so careful; he doesn’t need to be worked open like this. “It’s enough; just give me your cock.”

“Better too slow than otherwise,” Erik replies, voice no less strained. Thankfully, a few moments after Erik started playing with his ass Charles feels the press of Erik’s slick cock.

The first thrust is mutual; Erik presses forward and Charles bears down as he’s done so many times before. There’s plenty of lube and he’s relaxed and ready for a good fuck, but even so, there’s a moment of stretch that’s surprising. Charles is no stranger to big dicks and larger sex toys, but it's always exhilarating to feel his anus pulled taut like this. The intense sensation forces an appreciative noise from his throat right before the head pops fully within him. He just wishes he could see Erik’s expression at the same time.

The following shallow thrusts slowly work Erik’s cock in bit by bit. By the time he’s fully seated, hips flush to Charles’ ass, Charles is writhing impatiently for more. Yes, he’s been filled up this much before, but there’s something else to Erik’s flesh invading him like this. It’s different and it’s good and it’s so hot he feels like he’s burning from the inside out.

There’s no time for Charles to think and he doesn’t want to anyway. Erik pulls back and then drives his cock slowly forward again, his hips barely making a noise as they connect with Charles ass. However, Charles realizes that each successive movement of Erik’s hips is faster, more percussive than the last.

Not one to sit idly by while being fucked, Charles drives the pace by pushing back, countering every thrust with a push of his own. The sound and feel of his ass and Erik’s hips snapping together is beautiful percussion. If Erik’s neighbors can hear the slapping, Charles really doesn’t care; his cries will probably drown it out soon.

His growing gasps and moans are only fitting as the dick inside him rubs faster, harder, and closer to his prostate. It will only take a little shift of his hips to bring Erik against it, but he’s not ready, he still has to know just how rough Erik likes his sex. “You can go harder, _nggg_!”

Erik doesn’t make it rough exactly, but he sets a ruthless pace, cock driving in hard, hips slapping Charles’ ass hard enough to begin heating it up. It’s a fucking Charles feels from the friction on the rim of his asshole to the increasing ache in his arms as he shoves back to meet Erik with his whole body. Charles is delirious with sensation, drunk on the way Erik fucks the sense right out of him. The only thing coming out of his mouth are heavy breaths, nonsensical syllables, and maybe drool.

And then one of Erik’s hands is on his back and skims over his side to reach up under Charles’ chest. Erik lays over him, holding Charles, embracing him, and places his lips right next to Charles’ ear to say, “I want you to flip over and straddle my thighs.”

Speaking is difficult but Charles manages. “You’re asking a lot out of our first fuck.”

“Yeah,” Erik says and Charles is satisfied that his voice is equally affected, “but you’re good at this.”

Charles chuckles at that. “Practice makes perfect.”

Erik pulls off Charles’ back and slips out of his ass. When Charles turns around he finds Erik sitting back on his haunches, cock hard and red even through the condom. It’s such a handsome cock, if it hadn’t been in his ass he would definitely be tempted to swallow it. Fortunately it’s more than satisfactory in his ass alone.

Charles climbs Erik’s sweat-damp thighs and wraps his arms around Erik’s neck for leverage. This isn’t a position he’s often been in; it takes balance as well as strength, but when done right it’s intense.

Erik brings his arms around Charles’ back to hold him steady and then gives a nod to Charles. “Don’t hold back; I want you to come first.”

This time it’s Charles’ actions that speak louder than words, he starts with a smile, and follows by rising up and then sinking down on Erik’s cock once again. As he goes, a shocked sound stutters from his lips; the position drags his prostate all the way down Erik’s dick. He clenches hard, squeezing just for the sensation of squeezing around the unyielding cock inside him. Erik responds by rising swiftly on his knees and then dropping down just as suddenly. The drop, though, is only to set up for the next thrust up and then the next drop down.

Charles finds himself quickly out of sync with Erik's movement and scrambles to keep up. It isn’t until his body recalls childhood horseback riding lessons that Charles starts to get the hang of the position. Even so, even in those first awkward moments, it still feels good. As soon as he starts riding Erik’s thighs like he would a horse the whole act is elevated to a level of pleasure he’s never experienced with a first-time lover. Erik’s every bodily thrust up is met by Charles’ descent. The timing isn’t always perfect, but it doesn’t take much, not with the intense stimulation to his prostate, not with his dick rubbing between the two of them, for the tension winding Charles’ groin in knots to meet a fever pitch. The tension within his body builds up with the heat of their friction until Charles feels incandescent with sensation. He’s out on a rare precipice of pleasure and only his toes digging into the sheets keep him anchored.

The moment he thinks it’s too much and he’ll either go numb or cross over into pain is the very moment his body erupts into white hot sensation. He loses his rhythm instantly. With his rhythm goes his ability to control his end of the fucking; he clings to Erik’s neck while his body bows back. The concussion of each of Erik’s lifts and thrusts become much too much and Charles gives a long hoarse cry and comes. His cock blazes ejaculate within its condom like liquid fire. Beneath him, Erik holds him tight and pulls him back up to his previous position. His punishing thrusts don’t slow until Charles’ orgasm starts to weaken and his nerve-endings begin to sound a protest.

With Charles’ prick going limp between them, Erik lays him down on his back, slips out of his ass, and leans over him to grab the lube once more.

Dazed and humming with endorphin and other delightful natural chemicals, Charles watches in amused bemusement as Erik squirts lube straight from the bottle onto one of Charles’ inner thighs. Erik’s face is a mask of absolute concentration as he caps the bottle and tosses it away only to seize the flat pillow at the head of the bed. He folds the pillow in half and shoves it under Charles’ hips and then slaps Charles’ legs together. Erik rises back up on his knees, pulls Charles’ legs toward his shoulder and forces his dick between Charles’ slick thighs. Erik’s eyes close momentarily as he begins fucking Charles thighs.

It’s a strange but not unpleasant feeling to have his thighs fucked like this, especially when Charles is worn out from an intense orgasm. He doesn’t usually feel like he’s part of the act when it comes to intercrural sex, but this time feels voyeuristic; he can catch his breath and watch as Erik takes his pleasure from him in this unorthodox manner.

Charles doesn’t keep track of the time, only knows it’s brief, as he watches Erik’s face screw up in intense pleasure. Charles’ body rocks along, like a ship driven by storm waves; the creaking of the bed completing the imagery as Erik’s hips throw him toward release.

When it comes Erik’s orgasm is glorious. The sun is bright on the brick building across the street and the orange secondhand light limns him in fire as he thrusts two, three, and four last times and shudders. Erik wavers a few seconds on his knees and then, sweaty and breathing raggedly, he lets down Charles’ legs and collapses next to him.

Charles is sure he’s never seen Erik look so fetching as he does when he’s high on his afterglow. He turns to press his lips to Erik’s cheek. “I’ll clean up.”

“Thank you,” Erik says, his breath still uneven. But he reaches out and pushes several stray locks off Charles’ forehead in what Charles reads as an affectionate gesture.

Charles takes Erik’s lethargy as a good sign and, as promised, he rolls over to find the hot water and towels. Halfway through the clean up he discovers Erik has dropped off into sleep. He wishes he had his phone nearby; he’d love to have a picture of Erik’s face captured in repose.

After they’re clean and the condoms disposed of Charles is content to doze beside Erik, amused by the ache in his ass and dampness from water that’s left his thighs tacky. Erik isn’t the first person to fuck Charles’ thighs, but he is the first to pass up coming in his ass to do so. Charles is aware that his thighs are thick with muscle; buying jeans and trousers has made that obvious enough in dressing rooms and when measurements are taken. A few lovers have mentioned his thighs as a turn on, others were less than complimentary, but Erik is obviously a very ardent admirer.

Somewhat self-consciously, he checks that Erik’s eyes are still closed and then glances down at his thighs. They aren’t as hairy as his calves, but they are pale as worms. Maybe, he thinks, he could try tanning or something to make them more attractive. Perhaps adding more squats and lunges to his warms up would help define them.

Amused by his meandering thoughts, he turns his gaze up to take in Erik’s tattoos once more. Predictably, he lands on the tattoo Raven gave him. It isn’t as gruesome now, despite the bruising or the gory nature of the disembodied heart. In fact, the more he looks at it and the flow between the dragon and the heart the more he finds it strangely soothing. He thinks now that maybe he’s never seen it for what it was at all, but still, it fits Erik so very well. Erik is a man of vast inner conflict, he does have some destructive tendencies, but he also has a powerful heart. The heart does, after all, fill up Erik’s bicep. It isn’t bigger than the dragon, but it’s disproportionately large and it is very much penned, if not pinned, to Erik’s so-called sleeve.

Charles shifts closer to Erik, knowing that he might rouse him, but not at all concerned that he is doing so. He presses his lips firmly to Erik’s creased forehead first and then lowers himself to kiss the heart. Content, he rests his head against Erik’s arm and drifts to sleep.

* * *

Erik isn’t sure what to do when he wakes fully from his light sleep and Charles’ head is still on his arm and his hand is numb. There have been more than a few lovers that have experienced nothing less than Erik’s total disregard when he detached himself. Objectively, he thinks Charles is both deserving of and probably used to such behavior. It’s only a small shock that he finds himself unwilling to treat Charles that way. It's hard to imagine the breadth of intellect or the depth of solitude that lies beneath Charles' placid face when his face is comprised of sleep's soft lines.

Carefully, he reaches over and gently lifts Charles’ head up just enough to drag his arm back. When the motion doesn’t wake Charles up, Erik slips from his bed and collects the lube right-handed, his left arm a dead weight at his side. In the bathroom he sets the lubrication awkwardly onto the bathroom counter and washes up quietly while his arm starts to wake in tingling agony. Grimacing against the feeling, Erik opens and closes his hand rapidly to speed the blood back into his arm. It feels horrible, but it does the trick.

He takes clothes from the bathroom, including one of the short-sleeve shirts he rarely wears, but puts them on in the living space. Fully clothed but for his shoes, he goes back into his bedroom to retrieve his sketchbook and phone. He intends to leave Charles a text, but the phone isn’t where he left it. Erik knows he left it there; he intentionally put it exactly far enough away that he could hear but not be able to just turn it off.

Frowning, he walks into the kitchen to check if Charles might have left either phone in there; if nothing else he can call his own phone with Charles’. Another small surprise awaits him there; Charles has run the dishwasher. He rolls his eyes at that, but isn’t upset since the dishes will be clean.

It takes a few minutes of searching to find both phones on the couch under the throw blanket and pillow. His alarm isn’t ringing anymore, but it’s clear it was never turned it off. Charles is certainly sneaky about getting his way. Normally he would be annoyed, but like the dishwasher being run, he finds he doesn’t care because it’s still a matter of Charles meaning well. All the same Erik thinks it will be best they talk about boundaries later; tonight if Charles is staying over. After all, Erik intends to make good on their impromptu training session.

He also intends on one other thing. Erik takes his wallet from the table next to the couch and digs out a card he hasn’t looked at since he slid it inside its leather pocket. It’s old, a little yellowed and weathered all the way down the right side where it protruded slightly from his previous wallet, but Dr. Emma Frost’s name and number remain perfectly legible.

Seeing the card brings the old anger up through his heart to gnaw at his stomach and throat. Despite everything he’d done, Dr. Frost helped him find tools to manage the anger. She couldn’t fix him but she helped him learn how to cope. Charles is different; Charles hasn’t done anything that can’t be undone.

Erik leaves the card and the keys to the Frontier with Charles’ phone on his desk in the bedroom. Then he transfers his sketchbook to a messenger bag and takes down his helmet, raincoat, and bicycle. He only pauses halfway through the door to look back to the line of windows that lead to his bedroom. This is the first time he’s left somebody in this apartment and it doesn’t feel as uncomfortable as he thought it would. Perhaps, he muses, because there’s nothing incriminating in the place except the business card.

Even so, uneasy threads of anger and nausea stitch uncomfortable feelings to his heart when he shuts the door and takes his bicycle down the stairs. He seeks clarity in pushing himself to make a new best time to get to Quicksilver. It’s a shame rain has made way for the sun; water is everywhere and the sun is blinding on the many puddles that linger in the streets.

A line of filthy water is flung continuously against his back on the way to the shop; it happens every time he cycles in and after a rain storm. The feeling of it pelting against his back has been inspiration before and the regularity is helpful when he’s thinking too much like he is now.

He leaves the Felt locked outside when he arrives at the building. The second-guessing isn’t letting up, but there’s the shop to clean and his back room to meditate within. He takes the stairs up two at a time and slides his key into the old door’s padlock; the solid clunk of the tumblers turning over help considerably.

Leaving his helmet, shoes, and raincoat at the door, Erik walks into Quicksilver and finds a surprise has been waiting for him therein.

The shop is clean. The floors shine, the food is gone, trash taken out, the couch pulled back out into its customary place. Confused, he backs up and looks into the vase at the door. Raven’s standby MoMA umbrella is the only thing occupying it.

“ _Scheiße_ ,” he says under his breath. Raven and the others must have cleaned for him and while Raven usually does a half-assed job of it, this looks _good_. It looks more than acceptable, all but sparkling in the morning light. It’s such a small thing, but Erik’s anxiety breaks up and away for a snort of laughter. He walks in, wood cool and clean under his feet, his body heat leaving halos on the gleaming wood seconds after he’s passed.

Smiling to himself, Erik lights sticks from the lighter-scented section of his incense collection and sits down at his desk with his sketchbook. He flips through the collection of shapes and images that have been leading up to a completed first draft and contemplates quietly in the midst of sinuous curls of incense smoke. It reminds him of Raven’s tattoo and the kisses Charles set upon it. Erik folds back the short-sleeve of his t-shirt and looks down at the heart there.

When his pen comes down on a virgin sheet of paper, it is propelled by inspiration.


	14. The match that burns twice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Important note!** One of my preliminary readers found this chapter very triggering (glad I warned her). If you know yourself to have triggers, please jump to the end notes. Be aware that at least one of them is a big spoiler for the chapter. There's also a synopsis of the chapter after the triggers just to be safe. Obviously the synopsis is also total spoiler material but I much rather spoil than trigger. 
> 
> Thanks to mixture and Eilidh for prelim reading!

* * *

_The match that burns twice_

The next time Charles wakes Erik’s room is illuminated with sunshine and a phone is buzzing nearby. He sits up and immediately feels a well-used twinge from his backside; it’s a good sort of ache made all the better by remembering who put it there and how. Still naked, he rolls off the bed and pads quickly to Erik’s desk where he certainly hadn’t left his phone. There’s a small card with it that might be a message of some kind.

“Yes?” He asks even though he knows it’s Raven.

“Hey, can you buzz me in or do you want to come straight down?” Raven asks. She sounds tired. “Erik said he left the keys to the truck with you.”

“I thought you had a key?” Charles smiles to himself and reaches back to pull on one of his ass cheeks just to feel more of the delicious ache Erik left him with.

“The key’s on the truck’s key ring.” Raven replies. “Buzz me in. The button’s by the front door intercom thing.”

“No, let me get dressed and I’ll be right down and we can go out for lunch.”

“Get dressed, huh?” Raven sounds amused despite weariness. “You need a shower, too?”

Chuckling back, Charles turns to sniff under his arm. “No, I’m good.”

“Okay, but hurry up, lover boy.”

Raven disconnects before Charles can say anything about her lover boy remark. It’s been a long time since she’s met any of his lovers and is Erik that? Maybe he should buzz her in after all.

Uncertain, Charles stands staring at his phone, mulling over the pros and cons of letting Raven know more about his love life. Absently, he sets his phone down and gets dressed, but he puts on neither his button up nor the orange knit. He helps himself to one of Erik’s t-shirts because his button up needs ironing and the knit needs professional cleaning to get the blood out. Plus, there’s something warm and comforting about slipping into a shirt that usually stretches over Erik’s flesh.

After checking his hair in Erik’s bathroom mirror he goes back to collect his phone, the keys, and the card from the desk. Keys and phone stowed in his pockets, he turns the card over. It’s old and weathered and Charles can only guess Erik has held onto it for sentimental reasons of some kind. It has the name of a mental health practice and a psychologist. Charles feels his lip curl in distaste.

“Emma Frost,” Charles says quietly, trying the syllables out on his tongue. It’s a regal sort of name he supposes rather than the name of some frumpy social worker. Maybe Erik’s psychologist was more than Charles assumed but that doesn’t make her somebody he should talk to.

Charles drifts from the bedroom back into the bathroom to pick up his shirts and finds himself paused at the side of a wastebasket. It would be a good place for the card, but no, Erik could come across it here or even in the kitchen rubbish bin. Heaving a sigh, Charles withdraws his slim wallet from his back pocket and slips the card inside. He can throw it away later, somewhere Erik won’t come across. He lets himself out, locks the door behind him, and heads down the stairs.

In the lobby Raven is leaning against the glass panel next to the door that leads back outside. Seeing her makes Charles’ heart race and his stomach twist uncomfortably. It’s going to be hard to talk about what he’s done wrong when he feels like most of his internal organs want to retreat back to Erik’s bed.

Raven’s wearing a light hoodie with multicolored stripes and thumb holes in the lavender cuffs. It occurs to him that she probably wears such bright colors because it lifts her mood; they are joyfully bright. She lifts her head when he comes through. If not for the hood he would have seen the dark circles under her eyes sooner.

He has an impulse to tell her how tired she looks, but pushes the feeling of disapproval away as best he can. That’s part of the problem, isn’t it? Instead, he walks right to her and pushes the hood back over her brilliant head.

She looks up with one of her rare tentative smiles and then lifts up on her sneakered toes to put her arms around his neck and shove her face over his shoulder. His arms wrap around her instinctively and hug her close. The embrace is much longer than normal, the kind of hug they have when they haven’t seen each other for long periods of time or when something awful has happened. In this case, it feels like both.  Even so, his heart slows down and Charles feels like he’s somehow home, like he can relax.

“I love you, Raven,” he says.

“I love you, too,” she replies. Raven holds on a beat longer and then slowly lets herself down to stand flat on the ground. She leaves her arms resting on his shoulders where they frame her gaze when she looks up at him. “Before we have our talk I have something important I want to share with you.”

Charles swallows carefully and nods. “But let me just say I’m sorry about last night. I was outrageous and I’m sorry for spoiling your big day.”

Her arms slip down his shoulders and she squeezes his biceps before letting them fall away from him completely. “We’ll talk about that in a minute. This is important, too.”

Raven shifts her bag around in front of her body and pulls out a book. She opens it just enough to fish out a polaroid photo from its crisp pages. She pauses to look at it and, strangely to Charles, seems to take comfort from it. Solemnly, she opens Charles’ hand and sets the photograph on his palm.

It’s a photo of a baby with a telltale split upper lip. Charles nearly crushes the photo in his hand, but manages to flex his fingers out wide instead. It’s bewildering that Raven’s biological parents would have taken a photo of the laughing, squealing child he’s looking at. But then, no, this child has unilateral, not bilateral, cleft lip and possibly no cleft palate. This baby isn’t Raven at all.

“Who is this?” Charles asks, studying the photo more closely.

“That baby with the cute little bunnylip,” Raven answers, “is my boyfriend, Hank.”

The revelation hits him like a bag of sand. He looks back up in shock. “Holy mother of God, Raven. Why didn’t you tell me?”

She gives a slight shrug that gives lie to the enormity of the information and looks down at the photo in Charles’ hand. Her expression slips back to that of weariness. “He doesn’t tell anyone about it and it wasn’t my secret to give. But we both decided we weren’t going to hide anymore. Last night was about me, but it wouldn’t have happened without Hank’s support.”

Charles shakes his head. There are so many conflicting feelings crowding his chest, many of which he knows he should be ashamed of. Hank is more than just a brilliant scientist, but also somebody capable of understanding Raven’s intimate struggle with her appearance. Maybe they aren’t soul mates exactly, but kindred spirits and as such he could easily usurp Charles’ place in Raven’s life. Hank is far more of a threat than Charles ever gave him credit for.

“I threatened him a bit last night, but I don’t think I have it in me to apologize today.” It’s hard to hand the photo back rather than fling it away; controlling himself is a small victory. “Maybe in a few weeks. But this does change things.”

“He told me about your talk last night.” Raven takes the picture and tucks it safely back into the pages of her book. “He’s kind of been trying to get your approval even though I told him he was wasting his time. Anyway, he’s going to try to stop now.”

“I think that’s the best thing he could do,” Charles admits. He reaches up and runs his hand over her vermilion hair. The sunlight catches in her hair and burns a halo around the crown of her head; the blond might have been prettier, but perhaps the orange is more suiting. It certainly goes well with the bright colors she likes to wear. “You know that if you do take things further, if you have children, statistically-speaking your offspring will assuredly inherit the cleft.”

“Statistically-speaking,” Raven says with a long sigh. “Or big brotherly-speaking?”

He drops his hand from her head and tries to take hers hands in his. She only gives him her fingertips and her eyes search where his hands overlap them. Charles knows she has every right to speak to him this way, but it makes nothing easier.

“I’m not actually sure,” he admits. “I’m starting to doubt everything about how I relate to you. I only know I’ve been trying to force you to abide by my will for a very long time.”

Raven pulls her hands away, but it’s only so she can take his within her smaller grip. She looks up at him with her dark-eyed gaze and he sees a terrible sort of hope there; one he knows from his reflection on their mother’s eyes. God, how much of Sharon has he inherited? What is nature? What is nurture?

“You wanna go up and talk in Erik’s place?” Raven squeezes his hands. “You know he won’t mind if he let you stay here alone. He trusts you in his space and that’s not something easy to win.”

Charles shakes his head. “No, let’s go to the gorge or maybe the ocean. Somewhere with fresh air.”

“The ocean’s a bit far and the Rose Garden might be full of people on a Friday,” Raven says. “Maybe the roof at work? There’s fresh air and I can get you some tea.”

Charles shakes his head and squeezes Raven’s hands back. “No, this isn’t just about me. This is about us. This is about you and me and that means we should think about where’s comfortable for you, too.”

Raven blinks before her eyes grow wide. She opens her mouth to comment only to close it and look down at their hands. “Holy fuck, I think this is for real. Um, can we go to Quicksilver? My place is kind of a wreck. Janos and Azazel were breaking bottles.”

“Breaking _bottles_?” Charles goes from open to outraged so fast it’s emotionally disorienting. Bottles? Broken glass? Maybe he misjudged Janos completely, but obviously not Azazel.

“Not at each other,” Raven is quick to say. “Janos keeps a stack of plates he breaks in the safe but the argument erupted in the bar.”

“Safe? What safe?” Now Charles is just confused.

“I hate the safe; it’s creepy.” Raven pulls one hand away to rub at the back of her neck. “The loft has a safe. Sean uses if for recording, but Janos sometimes breaks plates in there when he gets stressed out. But, yeah, we have a creepy old safe.”

Charles tips his head back and closes his eyes. He really wants to tell Raven to move away from that loft and its rough-looking neighborhood, but if he starts there, where will he stop? “Quicksilver’s roof is fine and Morpho has excellent tea.”

“Great!” Raven smiles broadly and pulls Charles out the door. “Let’s get out of here.”

They walk into the sunny streets together. The pavement and sidewalks are dry where the sun has burned away the rain but there are puddles in the road and wet ground in the buildings’ deep shadows. Erik’s truck is in shadow, but only a few drops of rain remain scattered across its surface.

They stop next to the driver side door. Raven holds her hand out for the keys, but Charles hesitates. Back at Multnomah, when he and Erik had nearly fucked the first time before that terrible row, Erik had helped Charles feel like he had a semblance of control by letting him drive. That’s part of his problem, he knows, his desire to control Raven by whatever means necessary. Perhaps, he thinks, if he drives he will have that comfort, that illusion of control.

“I’ll drive,” Charles says and digs into his front pocket for the keys.

Raven shakes her head and keeps her hand held out, palm up. “No way, Erik never lets anybody drive the Frontier but me.”

The keys come out with a ringing of metal on metal. “He’s let me drive before.”

A shadow of confusion crosses over Raven’s sleep-deprived face. Her brow wrinkles as she squints up at him and purses her lips. “His apartment _and_ his truck?”

“Raven, you’re exhausted,” Charles reasons, “and it might help if I drive. I’m sure Erik won’t mind, but if you want we can call and ask.”

She remains visibly uncertain, eyes fix first on the keys and then on the truck’s window, but Raven’s hand finally drops heavily to her side. “No, I believe you, it’s just really unlike him.”

“Are you jealous?” Charles means it as a joke, but when Raven pitches her back against the truck and smoothes her hair from her face once more he sees she’s taking it seriously.

“Maybe,” she replies. “He never even lets Darwin use the truck and there’s pretty much nothing Erik wouldn’t trust Darwin with. So it was kind of a nice thing to be the only person he trusted with the truck. Maybe he’s opening up. I just wonder if it’s in general or if he’s _really_ into you.”

Butterflies clutter Charles’ stomach at her last few words, but in an attempt at levity he pats Raven’s hip. “Opening up could be good. But I do understand how you feel; I’m a bit jealous of how much time you spend with him and Hank.”

Raven rocks away from the truck to stand on her own weight. The corners of her mouth lift and her shadowed eyes regain a little luster. “We’re a couple of insecure assholes, aren’t we?”

Charles nods and unlocks the door. “Me more than you. The asshole part, at least. No, maybe the insecure part, too.”

Raven laughs at the clip of his words before walking to the other side of the truck. Once they’re both inside with their seatbelts on, she says, “ _So_ did Erik leave any lasting marks? Are you still sore?”

The engine starting might cover the sound of his sputtering, but not the look of it. “Raven, that’s completely inappropriate.”

When she only laughs in reply, though, Charles knows she was looking for exactly that reaction. Two can play that game. “Oh, you want to go there, do you? How’s Hank? Have you used a strap-on with him?”

Raven grimaces theatrically in response. “Not that I wouldn’t but, um, I really don’t think Hank would want me to talk about our sex lives with you.”

Charles pulls the truck out of the parking space and heads for the street. “And you think Erik’s any different?”

With a sigh, Raven slumps into her seat and crosses her arms. “I was trying to have some fun, but point taken. I guess that’s somewhere we can’t go, huh? I mean I was teasing, sure, but I sort of am curious to compare notes or something. Ugh, why am I so gross?”

“You’re not gross,” Charles replies. He doesn’t say he doesn’t want a reminder about her one-night stand with Erik. Nor does he try to inspect his own conflicting territorial feelings over Raven and the burgeoning ones for Erik. It’s too complicated. A quick look at the truck’s mirrors shows him it’s safe to pull out onto the street. “But you shouldn’t ask people things like that anyway; it’s not at all ladylike.”

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Raven slowly turn her face toward him. Nothing is said, but she doesn’t look away, either. The truck isn’t silent; there’s the blinking of the turn signal, the churning of the engine, the passing of other cars, but Raven’s silence is not a comfortable one. Charles isn’t sure what’s causing her to inflict the awkward silence on them, but if he focuses on driving he doesn’t have to ask her what’s wrong.

At the next red light she pushes herself straight in the seat and breaks the silence. “I thought we were going to talk about that. Or did you say that on accident or something?”

Charles looks to his right at Raven’s face and sees all the lines around her eyes, across her forehead, at her mouth. They’re rarely seen, but he knows what to look for even when he doesn’t want to see it. What did he do? Fuck, fuck, fuck, what did he do? “It was an accident. What was it?”

When Raven turns to face forward, she pushes her back against the seat and grips the seatbelt crossing her body with both hands. “The not ladylike thing.”

Charles presses hard on the brake and considers. On the one hand, it really isn’t ladylike to ask somebody about the kind of sex they’re having, let alone your brother. On the other is it something Raven should be chastised for? Would he chastise any of his female colleagues for asking about his sex life? Probably not; he likes the attention. Is ladylike a sexist parameter? It seems like a valid criteria for criticism, but he’s not sure now.

The light changes and Charles follows the other cars as they head for the highway. “That was sexist of me, wasn’t it? I’m sorry. Just this morning I was telling Erik I have a lot of bad habits built up over the years.”

He’s glad he’s driving, really glad, because somehow that distraction is actually making him feel less affronted by the correction. It’s easier to talk to Raven than he thought it would be. Perhaps because admitting his problems to himself had been hard enough. Admitting it to Erik was also hard, but perhaps he’s broken a path and that’s making it even easier now. Why did it feel safe to display weakness to Erik but not Raven?

“It’s a work in progress,” Charles continues, “and I don’t know if I’ll ever really get through this, but I want to. I don’t want to be some sort of brother and tyrant. You deserve better.”

Raven releases her grip on the seatbelt and reaches out to touch Charles’ elbow. “I believe you this time, Charles. I really think you’re going to try. You know, you should see a therapist; I got so much help that way.”

At that Charles can’t help but laugh. “First Erik and now you? I don’t need therapy! I dated a psychiatrist and he was just as screwed up as anyone else. Besides, just think how that would look to my colleagues; I could lose respect and status if I went to a shrink. Seriously, Raven, what would people say?”

“I don’t know, Charles,” Raven replies quickly. He notes tension creeping back in her posture and voice. “What would they say? That you have a tattooed sister and go to therapy? What’s wrong with that? What do you say to the people that know you’re bi?”

“Being bi is different!” Charles feels himself start to heat up but tries to focus on the ramp to the highway. “I don’t need therapy. I understand that you and Erik needed help with things. Especially you; you went through so much! But I haven’t suffered like you. I’ve been trying to control you, yes, but I’m going to stop. I can stop being that person.”

“But Charles,” Raven says, and now she’s leaning toward him, straining against the belt. “This image thing isn’t really about me, is it? This is about you controlling how people see you. I can help you treat me better, but I don’t think I can help you with the image thing. Don’t listen to your inner Sharon, Charles, listen to people that care.”

“That’s not fair; this isn’t about Sharon,” Charles says, shoving his back against the seat and taking the ramp a little faster than necessary. “This is about what I do to you. How can you say I have a psychological problem when I’m trying to make a change and apologize for the way I’ve treated you? Yes, I’ve been a right bastard, but there’s nothing wrong with me or my head!”

Raven shrinks back, the safety belt retracting with her. “I didn’t say there’s something wrong with you. I never said that. I just said you needed help with how you want to control your image, maybe because Sharon always tried to control ours.”

“Everyone tries to control their image. Like it or not, it’s how the world works.” Charles shakes his head and watches the rest of traffic moving on the highway before them. It’s before lunch so there aren’t many other vehicles about and that makes merging a simple affair. “Look at you; you’re an image expert. What do you want people to think with your stretched ears and your tattoos? That you’re your own person, right?”

“No,” Raven says, “that’s not it at all. My tattoos are for me; my chimera is for me. You can see what you want in it, but in the end my tattoos are my business, not anyone else’s.”

Charles immediately finds the hole in her logic and exploits it just like he would with one of his peers. “Ah, but that fails to explain Erik’s dragon and heart! Is that for him? He never designed it. And what about me? Erik’s supposedly designing something that is personal for me. Is that for me or for him?”

“That’s different!” Raven exclaim and in her frustration she slaps her hands down on her thighs. “That’s totally different and you know it! We design for our clients! I don’t design for the people that are going to look at my client; I design for a client. And Erik’s my friend and mentor so what I put on him is between us. I don’t care what you think you see when you look at that dragon I never designed it for you! Nothing in my chimera or in Erik’s dragon have anything to do with your gaze.”

The sun is coming in warm through the windows, but Charles feels cold with fury he knows is unreasonable. There’s something in her words that hurts and ever since Kurt died, Charles always gives as good as he gets if not more. “Is that so? Then why do you refuse so many kinds of tattoos and so many body parts? Gang logos, Polynesian designs, or perfectly appropriate images but not on hands? Who is that for, Raven? Have you ever thought about how you contradict yourself? You say you work for the client, but even you control your clients’ image!”

Raven punches up and hits the cab’s ceiling in her frustration. “That’s not it all! God, Charles, you’re twisting everything around! You’ve helped make me feel ugly all my life and now you’re accusing me of doing to my clients what I’ve been fighting?”

One of Charles’ hands comes up off the truck’s steering wheel to gesture emphatically as he returns fire. “If the shoe fits. The fact is you control your image and you gate-keep the images of your clients when they want something you don’t like. It’s human and you shouldn’t be ashamed of having standards composed of—

Blue and red lights flash in all the truck’s mirrors. Charles’ blood runs cold; the argument evaporates but one kind of tension is traded out for another.

Raven’s eyes are wide; she sinks her hands into her hair in distress. “Were you speeding? Oh my God, Erik is going to kill us.”

“I don’t think so,” Charles says in a coldly even voice. “I took the ramp a little fast, but there’s no speed limit posted.”

Raven turns around and peers back at the car while Charles carefully maneuvers the truck to the highway’s shoulder. “Oh man, he looks like a total asshole. Does the truck have a taillight out or something? Maybe he saw us yelling. Shit.”

“He’s just doing his job,” Charles says. He stops the truck, turns the engine off, and triggers the truck’s hazard lights. When it’s safe, Charles reaches into his back pocket for the slim billfold with his license and credit cards. “It’s my fault. We shouldn’t have talked in the truck; I thought I’d be more comfortable like this.”

“Well, nothing we can do to change it.” Raven takes her phone out of one striped pocket. “I wonder if I should call Erik. If we get a ticket or something he’s going to be upset. I think I should let him know so he has time to calm down before we see him.”

“Let’s wait to see if we’re getting a ticket before we say anything to Erik.” No need to upset Erik if they don’t have to and probably best not to worry him until they know exactly what the problem is.

“Yeah,” Raven replies and sits back in her seat. “At least we’re wearing our seatbelts.”

A few minutes later Charles decides Portland police officers are in much less a hurry to issue tickets than those on the east coast. Raven doesn’t seem surprised by the long wait, but Charles drums his fingers on the driving wheel in his impatience. What’s taking this officer so long to get out of his car? Is he listening to an audiobook or something?

“What is he doing? Drawing a picture of the truck?”

Raven snorts at that. “No, he’s waiting for back up.”

“Back up? For a traffic violation?” Charles rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, Portland’s different.” Raven sighs. “They do this even when I get pulled over for routine inspections.”

Something in Raven’s words rings decidedly off. It isn’t the timbre of her voice, but the bizarre idea that a routine stop would generate back up. “Raven, were you ever stopped when you had your car?”

She shakes her head. “No, but I was careful and I didn’t have all my snakes then.”

Is that why Erik covers his tattoos then? The ringing turns into suspicion. “Do you think Erik has a criminal record?”

The sudden appearance of white around Raven’s eyes answers before her mouth can catch up. “Wait, are you thinking that police box the truck in because Erik has a criminal record?”

Even as she asks another Crown Victoria pulls up and backs up until there’s no way Charles can easily pull the truck forward. Charles has never seen this happen before, has never even heard of routine stops requiring back up unless there was suspicion of violence. “Or maybe they thought we were having a violent argument. We were yelling and I’m sure we looked angry. At any rate, they must think I’m Erik.”

“Maybe,” Raven says, and looks into the rearview mirror again. “Maybe they’ll see your ID and ask us some shitty questions and then we can go. Do you have your passport on you?”

Charles shakes his head and exhales slowly through his nose. His morning had been going so well; a hint of emotional connection and athletic sex with Erik, and now an argument with Raven that’s culminated in a traffic stop. He’s been pulled over before speeding, once for driving under the influence, but he’s never had any trouble with officers or even a single ticket. Sharon and Kurt had been the real arbiters of punishment back then.

Frustrated with the excessive wait, Charles unbuckles his seat belt and opens the driver side door.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Raven says, her voice rising as Charles slips out of the truck to the concrete shoulder. “Charles, get back in! This isn’t our neighborhood in Westchester! Don’t you remember what happened to Occupy protestors?”

“Raven, do I look like a criminal or a hipster?” Charles asks. Without waiting for an answer he turns around toward the police cruiser behind them with his driver’s license.

“Get back in the vehicle, Lehnsherr!”

Charles looks at the officer who has stepped out of his Crown Victoria, raises his hands, and turns on his most ingratiating smile. “It’s okay officer, I’m not Erik Lehnsherr. I’m Charles Xavier, a professor at Oxford University.”

To Charles’ surprise, the officer doesn’t look at all mollified. In fact, he looks more agitated; his eyes narrow and the lines that bracket his nose and mouth grow deeper. “In the vehicle now!”

“Charles!” Raven hisses and presses her hands up against the cab’s ceiling. “Holy fuck, get back in here before something bad happens!”

But Charles has no intention of doing so because he’s never come in contact with police officers that are this rude and Charles is nothing if not stubborn and contrary when people try to treat him the way his stepfather once did. “I won’t be treated like a criminal. I’m a professor at a prestigious university and that, more than my money, affords me respect.”

From the car in front of them the second officer steps out. His jaw is tight as he walks toward Charles, his steps scrape against concrete or splash in the many puddles from the night’s rain. “It’s going to be a lot better for you if you get back in the vehicle.”

“Please get back in the truck.” Raven is no longer demanding, she’s pleading. Charles hasn’t heard that particular note in her voice since she lived in New York.

Charles drops his arms and turns to get back in the truck. He never makes it.

A heavy weight slams Charles’ into the truck’s exterior. He feels the panel dimple with his weight as his cheek flattens against the surface. Raven is yelling. It’s all he can do not to resist when his hands are wrenched behind his back, but then his feet are knocked out from beneath him. Perversely, he hears the panel dent pop back out, but then air is rushing across his face as he heads toward the ground.

Fighting instinct helps Charles twist enough that he hits the ground shoulder first: a spray of water splashes across the side of his face. He’s less concerned with the shockwaves of pain that radiate from the harsh impact than the hands that are twisting his wrists into far more agonizing contortions. Even though he knows better, Charles tries to straighten his hands out and when that doesn’t work, he attempts to break his wrists away entirely by taking a stab at rolling under the truck.

“Stop resisting!” One of the officers snarls.

His wrists twist again and a body comes down atop him knee-first. The vicious blow forcibly expels all the air from Charles’ lungs; he gasps hideously and then there’s a hissing sound and something wet is—

Agony. Charles bellows in white-hot agony. He sucks in air, but it’s just as excruciating as the wet veil that’s settled over his eyes. Uncontrollable, wracking coughs try to expel the pepper spray to no avail. When he can’t cover his face with his arms, he instinctively brings his knees up to shield his face from a second dose. It means he can wipe his face on his knees, but with the coughing he bangs his face against his knees as he does so. He finds that touching his face at all is a dreadful mistake, punished with more excruciating pain.

Somewhere, Raven is pleading for the officers to stop. It’s painfully familiar, this feeling of helplessness and it doesn’t fade even after the officer gets off him. Burning with capsicum heat, Charles coughs, whines, and writhes on the hard ground.

It’s an eternity of unceasing pain before Charles can breathe through the heat. His left eye feels less on fire, but the pain is so intense he can’t help but continue writhing. Perhaps the pain is less on the left because that side of his face was splashed with rain water before the spraying. Nobody’s touching him. He still can’t see. All he can hear is the sound of his jeans rubbing against the concrete and the light splashing of his shoulder in the puddle.

After another endless period of what might be minutes somebody says. “His driver’s license is legit. Charles Francis Xavier, PhD. Probably one of those nutty professor types with no concept of reality. No priors. Not even a speeding or parking ticket.”

“He sure doesn’t look like a professor.”

Charles lays half in a puddle on the side of the highway, cars flashing by, and wonders if he’s going to jail and if he can sue for police brutality.

“So, Professor,” he hears. “Do you know why I pulled you over today?”

Charles wants to ask why it matters, but considering the painful state of his mouth, nose, and eyes he decides against it. It’s a fishing sort of question, so he tries to give them nothing. “My sister and I were having a heated debate?”

He hardly recognizes his own voice for the roughness and gasping quality. God, it hurts. His face is being seared off; there go his good looks.

“Very good,” the officer replies. “Do you know the owner of this truck?”

“Erik Lehnsherr. He’s my sister’s employer.”

“Oh, yeah? Well your sister’s employer is a violent offender; a real dangerous piece of work. Now, do you know why you’re on the ground?”

Charles heaves a shuddering sigh in the burning darkness behind his eyelids and wet lashes. The violent offender part isn’t really a surprise, but what does it mean if a cop calls somebody a piece of work? “Because I didn’t rent a car like any intelligent person would have done.”

Both officers laugh at that, but then a shoe prods his ribs. “Because you got out of the vehicle and refused to get back in. We never know what a person is capable of and we have to protect ourselves in situations where we think a violent offender is involved. To protect ourselves we have to assume the worst possible scenario when somebody gets out of their vehicle and won’t follow directions.”

“I understand.” Charles doesn’t understand; he was getting back in Erik’s truck when he was tackled. He thought he was cooperating. Knowing better than to argue, Charles drops his head until it rests on the ground; he remembers too late that he’s lying in a puddle. “I was very foolish.”

“Normally,” the officer continues, “I’d throw the book at you and write up a disorderly conduct citation. Do you know what that is, Professor?”

“A misdemeanor?” Charles feels the cold water seeping through his hair where it cools down his scalp. He hopes none of the pepper spray is floating on the surface of the puddle.

“Yeah, and if you had a government job you’d lose your security clearance. And if you wanted a government job, you’d never get it.”

“I see.” Charles opens his streaming eyes, but the burn renews and he can only see out of his left eye anyway. His right eye won’t stay open so he squints at the ground beneath the truck with the left. “Not only foolish but stupid, too.”

“But you seem to be a good guy without a lick of common sense, so I’m just going to write you up for careless driving.”

Charles’ temple scrapes the puddle’s bottom when he nods. “Thank you, officer.”

He hears the officer crouch down, then feels hands at his wrists where something has been digging harshly into his skin and cutting off his circulation. There’s a small snapping sound and his wrists suddenly come apart; one hand flops to the ground. His left arm is now wet all the way to the elbow.

Carefully, slowly, he rolls out of the puddle. There is a pair of feet beside his face and pantlegs that are splashed with water. He sees a second set of feet walking away.

“It helps if you blink a lot,” the officer above him says. “Blink a lot and don’t touch your face.”

“Can I come out and help him?” Raven asks. She’s been quiet for quite some time now as far as Charles can tell.

“I’m going to be a whole lot happier if you stay where you are. But if you’ve got baby shampoo to wash the spray off his face, I’ll give it to him.”

“Baby shampoo? No, I don’t.”

By the time the other officer returns Charles is sitting up but his mouth, nose, and eyes are still on fire. With his reason less governed by pain, he’s been careful to not touch his face lest he drag more capsicum into his pores or over mucous membranes. Sight is returning to his right eye; it burns less, for all that less just means he no longer wants to rip it from the socket.

The officer crouches down to help Charles sign the citation and then rips off one of the copies. Charles takes the ticket and attempts to put it in the breast pocket of his button up except, no, he’s wearing one of Erik’s shirts. The police officers help him up and walk him around to the passenger side of the truck; apparently Raven had crawled over to the driver side and never moved back. Of course it isn’t like he’d be doing any driving with one eye still half-shut.

One of the officers who, Charles realizes, is wearing disposable gloves, helps Charles in then pulls the seatbelt across him. “You stay out of trouble, Professor. And if you ever get pulled over again stay in the vehicle with your hands where the officer can see them.”

Charles nods and the officer shuts the door.

“I guess that’s why Erik doesn’t let Darwin drive,” Raven mumbles when the police are finally walking back to their cars. “I don’t even want to think what would have happened had he been driving.”

Charles turns his head and squints at her. Like him, her eyes are red and her nose is running, but it’s from tears rather than pepper-spray.

A season of quiet passes over the truck as they wait for the Crown Victoria in front of them to move forward enough to allow the Frontier to pull out.

“Let’s get out of here,” Raven says. Her voice trembles as she speaks. “We might need to stop and get you some baby shampoo and maybe some milk. You know, I should check.”

She takes her phone back out of her pocket, looks around at the traffic, and then dials. 

* * *

Erik is bathed in light at the bank of windows along the back of the studio. There’s no music playing, nor has he lit any incense; he’s been enjoying the lingering mélange of incense past and the relative quiet that comes with the studio space’s remove from the street. His original rough draft is taped to one of the windows and another sheet taped over the top. Redrawing the image this way is cheaper than buying a light table, but more labor intensive than working with a tablet and photoshop. Secretly, he just likes the directness of it and how akin it feels to hand-lettering on glass.

All five of his left hand’s fingertips press against the paper while his right hand takes a brush-tip pen around the shadowed lines he wants to keep and eschews the ones he doesn’t. The process of creation feels good to Erik, at least if he can be said to feel it. It’s a form of meditation to be lost in the production process of art. Unaware of time or space, his mind works with his hand’s pressure in conjunction with the ink flow soaking into the paper and the angle of his hand. Hundreds of insignificant decisions are being made unconsciously as he works, but all those decisions together produce a significant whole.

So when his phone vibrates in his front pocket, Erik ignores it. When the call ceases only to resume immediately after, he sighs in angry frustration and fishes the device out. It’s Raven. He glances at the shadows on the floor; it’s still early for her to show up, but it isn’t unlikely that she’s calling to update him about her conversation with Charles. He wouldn’t mind listening given the direction he’s thinking about going with her brother.

He slides the pen behind his ear like he used to his cigarettes and takes the call. “Lehnsherr.”

“Hi, Erik,” he hears an incredulous noise from whoever Raven is with. Probably Charles, but he sounds a little strained. “Do you know anything about pepper spray?”

In one swift move Erik turns his back on the sunlit window and switches the phone from his left hand to the right. He’s not really sure how to answer, so he runs on instinct. “Yeah, it burns. Why?”

“Very fucking helpful. Somebody I know got sprayed!” Erik can hear the strain in her voice that he missed the first time. Blood begins to thunder through his head.

“Who?”

“Just tell me if you know how to fix it!” Raven’s voice is splintering on the edges of hysteria. “Baby shampoo? Milk?”

“Milk and Dawn dish soap,” Erik replies evenly. “I’ve heard no-tears baby shampoo is better, but I don’t know. Whole milk soothes the burn and soap removes the oil.”

“Do we even have whole milk? Morpho’s no good for that.”

“We have whole milk here because Morpho doesn’t.” Erik walks from the studio to the gallery space and then through to the storage room where they keep empty spray bottles and cleaning supplies. He lifts one of the bottles up from a shelf. “We have some spray bottles I can fill with milk and towels to soak in it, but we don’t have Dawn or baby shampoo. If it’s Azazel you can bring him here and I’ll run to the store for the soap. Is there pepper spray all over my truck?”

“It’s not Az,” Raven says. She sounds calmer now and Erik attributes that to his deceptively even façade. He doesn’t want anything to do with this situation, but he’s the one with the pepper-sprayed past so he can be a voice of reason even if his body yearns to vibrate with the beat of his heart. “But there might be pepper spray in your truck. Yeah, actually that’s pretty likely.”

“Raven,” Erik says with a growing sense of agitation and low grade doom; he’s beginning to think the victim is Charles. How in the fuck would Charles get pepper-sprayed between his place and wherever? Is there another demonstration? Surely Darwin or Kitty would have told him if something like that was going on. “If it isn’t Az you probably have better supplies at your place but I’ll come over and help. Was Charles involved?”

The long pause that sounds only of traffic is his second clue, but then he hears Charles speak in a voice that’s half croak. “Why aren’t you telling him it’s me?”

The phone makes a series of terribly awkward jostling sounds. Erik’s forced to turn his volume up, close his eyes, and strain to hear a faint, garbled voice say, “Because I can’t just say the police sprayed you because they thought you were him. It’s a delicate situation.”

Erik feels the empty spray bottle hit the floor, bounce, and rattle to a standstill near his bare feet. He pulls the phone away from his face and stares at it dumbly. Something just beneath his sternum feels like it’s imploding and a funny sensation in the back of his throat suggests bile or vomit.

It doesn’t even seem like his hand that moves the phone back up to his face. It doesn’t seem like him Raven is talking to, but that he’s suddenly eavesdropping on a conversation with people he doesn’t know. Raven says something that he doesn’t comprehend and after a few moments he thinks maybe he should say something.

“Yeah, okay,” he says from far away and ends the call abruptly.

It’s hard to imagine that it’s his body that walks aimlessly from the dark storage room and toward the direct light of gallery space’s factory windows. He stops just shy of the rectangular panels of sunlight on the floor, phone loose in his fingers, a rushing sound in his ears. He’s hyper aware of the movement of the tendons in his neck when turns his head to look through the railroad tie pass-through.

From where he stands, there’s a clear view of the glowing paper stuck to the windows with Raven’s colorful masking tape.

The fact is: police have pepper-sprayed Charles during some kind of traffic stop involving the Frontier. They thought Charles was him and Charles was subsequently treated like the criminal _Erik_ is. And that means he knows. Charles knows. Even if Charles could accept a man that works in blood, he’ll never accept a murderer with a temper. And what will Raven do?

He felt the tendons in his neck but he doesn’t feel his arm at all: the phone is no longer in his hand, but there’s a hole in the window and paper edges are fluttering all around it. It’s like a gunshot wound that bleeds air instead of blood. Erik’s vision is growing dark and his heart thunders and burns in his throat. This can’t happen, he can’t burn.

Long strides deliver him to his incense shelf, but his hands are shaking and he can only fumble boxes to the floor. It’s getting hard to breathe.

“Breathe, have to breathe.” He takes a deep breath to inflate his lungs and exhales hard. In through the nose, out through the mouth, in through the nose, out through the mouth; in with Buddha out with Erik. “Fifty. Forty-nine. Forty-eight.” Slowly, slowly; it’s no good hyperventilating.

At forty-five he throws open the door to the back room. At forty-four he falls to his hands and knees on the silk carpet and breathes in deep breaths of lingering incense from the old weave. At forty-three he sees his own dried blood on the carpet and remembers he let Charles in here, in this private place. Charles has been everywhere that matters.

Forty-two is roared at the top of his lungs, shredding his throat as he goes. While bellowing forty he finds Dr. Frost’s card isn’t in his wallet. It’s getting harder to think, harder to breathe in through his nose and out through his mouth. At thirty-nine he can’t find his phone. At thirty-eight he can’t remember Moira’s phone number.

At thirty-seven Erik burns. At thirty-seven Erik loses himself to the pleasure of physical violence. At thirty-seven there is nothing sacred or holy. Not the rug in the backroom, not the vase by the door, not the autoclave, not his incense, not even the art on the walls; nothing helps but orgiastic destruction. He is a prisoner of his own conflagration, a heretic burning at the stake he tied himself to. His need for justice struck a burning brand long ago and his own hand threw it on the kindling. 

* * *

 Raven uses all of Janos’ organic whole milk between spraying Charles’ face, neck, and chest and following up with towels soaked in the same. It’s helped with the burn, but the following soap and water routines have only reactivated the pepper oil and renewed the burn, albeit at a far less dramatic level. It isn’t until they’ve gone through five baptisms of soapy water that the burn is manageable and Charles is starting to feel and think like a normal human being instead of a human torch.

He wishes Raven hadn’t told Erik not to come unless she calls or texts; even though Charles is still high on the aftereffects of pain, he worries about Erik.

Water and a tiny scattering of oil globules pour from Charles’ face when he lifts up from the metal bowl of water they’ve set on the counter next to the fridge. “Have you gotten any texts from Erik?”

“I haven’t checked.” Raven is standing next to him at the sink refilling one of the two mixing bowls they cycled between with one part Dawn to three parts water. She empties out the very last bit of their last huge bottle of green soap. “I’m trying to think up how to talk to him about what happened. He doesn’t like talking about his past, you know? One of those cops said Erik’s a violent offender and I’m sure he wouldn’t want us to know that. I have to figure out if we should tell him or not. Like, I wish I could get him really really high, put on some relaxing music, all the incense, and then tell him.”

“We could say I bought some pepper-spray and had an accident,” Charles says. “He probably won’t buy that, though after you acted so suspicious.”

Raven rolls her eyes and raises her face to the ceiling. “Somebody I love got tackled and pepper-sprayed; I wasn’t thinking clearly. Anyway, how does this affect you? I kind of had the impression the two of you were getting kinda serious.”

That’s just the thing, Charles isn’t sure. Before the traffic stop he was thinking of embarking on a relationship with Erik. He knows it would be hard; there’s distance to be considered and he isn’t sure he wants his colleagues to know about him pursuing a tattooed man. His bisexuality is mystifying enough for many of his peers who want to write him off as either gay or straight. Add an abrasive man covered in tattoos to the mix and the talk would surely fly.

However, if Erik was willing he’d wanted to try, but now that violent offender is on the list with the tattoos and tattooing it’s much harder to wrap his mind around. What would people say? Would talk be so bad it would affect his career? With Erik in Portland, maybe he could keep it a secret. But, then, since when did long distance relationships ever work? Maybe it was doomed from the start.

“Almost any other topic would be better,” Charles finally says.

Raven trades him the new mixing bowl for the one he most recently used. He takes another deep breath and plunges his face in.

Fifteen minutes later Raven is almost done cleaning the kitchen and Charles is freshly dressed after a tepid shower. His clothes remind him somewhat of Erik’s typical wardrobe; black chinos and a grey Oxford hoodie with black sleeves. Charles’ eyes aren’t red any longer, but his face, especially his nose and mouth, are still pink. If not for his nose and mouth it might look like he’s sun or wind burnt.

Both Erik’s shirt and Charles’ jeans are tied up in a plastic trash bag pending research to wash the pepper spray out. Charles voted to throw them away and get Erik a new shirt, but Raven has developed an aversion to wastefulness in their years apart. The bag sits on the fire escape, plastic rippling in a breeze; since there’s a grill out there it might be convenient for burning. Though the loft residents would probably object on the grounds of future pepper spray flavored barbeques.

Charles glances at his phone; it’s after noon. He should be hungry, but his body is heavy from all the adrenaline and stress and would rather sleep. Despite all the drama with Janos and Azazel, he intends to collapse on Raven’s bed. Sighing, he fumbles with unlocking his phone’s screen and then composes a new message to Erik. _Can we take a rain check on today? Maybe I can be your Sabbath goyim tomorrow?_

The phone goes back into his pocket. He joins Raven who is pouring herself a glass of Sean’s remarkably unexpired 2% milk. “Man, I better check up on Janos and tell him I owe him a bottle of organic, cruelty-free, free-range, lightly homogenized milk.”

Charles nods and comes behind her to set his chin on her shoulder; he digs his chin in a little like when they were kids. “You know, while I was suffocating under one of the milk-towels, I came to an uncomfortable re-realization. I was definitely being a bastard before the police pulled us over. I think the pepper-spray was my karmic reward.”

Raven tilts her head back to take a long drink of milk and then lowers the glass to press it against Charles’ cheek. She sighs. “While I was in the truck, helpless to do anything to help you, reliving my childhood, I made a decision.”

The glass is cold, refreshing on the remaining heat of Charles’ skin. “Yes?”

“We can’t talk about this stuff.” She takes the glass away and places it carefully back on the counter. “Last night Erik said you needed time to think things over; probably you haven’t had enough. And me? I can’t just keep doing this over and over and over. You _do_ need to talk to somebody, but that somebody isn’t me. Maybe Erik or somebody else, but if it’s going to be me then I think letters or email are the only way.”

Charles shuts his eyes and lowers his forehead against Raven’s shoulder. In his mind’s eye he sees Erik’s drawing of the raven being freed from its cage by Charles’ blood.

“I’m still here,” she continues, “as your friend and as your sister, but I can’t let you hurt me. When I let you hurt me it’s like I’ve failed both of us. If I keep letting you do this, how can you heal? So after we rest and I get some sleep, we’ll plan how to tell Erik a sanitized version of what happened, then I’ll figure out some rules or boundaries or something for us.”

“An intervention,” Charles says. His forehead remains on her shoulder with his eyes closed.

“Yeah,” Raven replies and Charles feels her arm move as she raises the glass back up to her lips. He tracks the movement rather than focus on the misery creeping throughout his body. When she puts the glass back down, she takes a hold of one of his hands and pulls him toward her room. He doesn’t tell her to rinse the glass, just goes along close behind.

Inside the room with all its chaos, Raven pushes her purse to one side of the bed and the two of them fall on the unmade sheets together. Charles doesn’t protest when Raven curls around him, playing the part of the big spoon. It’s enough to rest, bleak as he now feels, and concentrate on the sound of his own breathing and the rise and fall of Raven’s chest against his back.

“Don’t forget to text Janos,” he says and closes his eyes.

Raven sits up and rummages around the bed for her jacket and phone. Her rummaging reminds Charles of the card Erik gave him that remains tucked away in his wallet; it will be useful to him after all. Emma Frost is a nice name and Erik did say she was beautiful.

“Fourteen missed calls?” Raven’s voice rises in alarm. Her body jerks straight up from behind him with a harsh gasp. “Oh my fucking fuck!”

Her feet hit the wooden floor as hard as Charles’ pulse. He bolts up and scoots to the edge of the bed as she stares at her phone. “What’s going on?”

But Raven is scrolling through her messages with an increasingly horrified expression and doesn’t seem to hear him. “Oh, Jesus fuck,” she exclaims.

Charles watches, frozen, as she reaches up and rubs at her brow. When she finally seems to exhaust her patience or all the messages she immediately taps and slides her finger across her phone’s face. She raises the phone to her ear and locks eyes with Charles. What Charles sees there is panic reminiscent of the police stop.

“Get your shoes and some soapy towels for the Frontier; Erik’s trashed Quicksilver.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Triggers: violence, police brutality, dissociative episode, feelings of helplessness.
> 
> Synopsis below.  
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> Synopsis: On the way to Quicksilver, Charles and Raven get into another heated argument and police pull them over. Charles gets out of the truck to talk to the officers and is offended when they tell him to get back in. There’s a physical struggle and Charles is sprayed with pepper spray. Raven is helpless to do anything but watch.  
> After they’re allowed to leave, Raven calls Erik to ask how to remove the pepper spray. During the call he discovers that Charles was sprayed because police thought Charles was Erik. (This is where the dissociative part comes in.) Erik tries not to lose control but when none of his usual fail safes work he loses it and trashes the shop.  
> Back at Raven’s loft, Raven and Charles remove the pepper spray and Raven tells Charles they can no longer talk about his controlling behavior. Charles decides he needs professional help after all. The chapter ends when Raven finds out Erik’s gone on a destructive rampage.


	15. That which did not bring peace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think this is triggering material, but the chapter starts with the graphic aftermath of Erik's rage and does qualify as the aftermath of self-harm.
> 
> Jewish readers, if you see anything off about the Jewishness of this chapter (or any other chapter) can you please let me know? I want to make sure I'm being respectful.

_That which did not bring peace_

 

It’s cold, dark, and wet. The sound of water falling is soothing, the feel of it pouring over his body helps him imagine that a fire inside is being put out. It comes down on his head, neck, and shoulders with little variance in pressure. The water’s grown colder, but that’s all the better to keep the heat down. It’s dark and cold and so much better than the light and truth of what lies on the other side of the veil of sensation.

He has no idea how long he’s been in the dark, but it’s been long enough that even with his eyes closed he can see the light under the door through the thin tissue of his eyelids. When clouds pass over the sun he knows and when somebody sits down on the other side of the door, he knows that, too.

“You okay in there, Erik?”

He knows this voice and it makes things worse to hear it, because it’s somebody he trusts, somebody that trusts him with paint and tattoo ink. His face drops into his hands. What is this he feels? It’s a terrible feeling and having people he knows and cares about nearby only makes it more unbearable.

Pressure blooms in radiating bursts as he closes the heels of his hands over his eyes. He pushes his head back against the wall and opens his mouth to the falling water. He says nothing, but gulps down air and water.

“Brother, talk to me. Knock on the door, at least.”

He does him one better by dropping his head away from the wall and then slamming it back.

“Jesus, Erik, don’t do that.”

“Fuck,” he rasps. But at least he feels a halo of pain reverberate throughout his head from the hit. Most of him feels numb, but he’s slowly coming more aware of himself; his folded up limbs, the wall he’s pressing his back against, the weight of the sodden clothes hanging on his body. The radiating pain under the sting of skinned knuckles, the ache of his head, and the dull throb of his feet.

“There’s some blood out here,” comes that calm, grounded voice. “Is that you? Did you step on the glass?”

“Darwin,” he says and lifts his face for another mouthful of water. He swallows it down. “Did Kitty see anything?”

“No, the guys from HammerPress came and got me. Lucky they didn’t call the police. But Kitty saw the front door and she’s worried about you. It would make both of us feel a lot better if you’d let me take a look at you.”

He lets his hands fall and crosses his arms over his knees so he can drop his head down. “Does Raven know?”

“Yeah, Kitty talked to her and she’s on her way over. Why don’t you turn off the water and come out and dry off?”

It’s perhaps the first actionable news he’s heard yet, but he remains folded up, back against the wall, forehead on his crossed forearms, and tries to focus instead on the force of the water that’s falling down on him. It feels safe here. Cold, wet, pounding. Like solitary confinement with a built-in shower. Now that’s something truly actionable.

“Darwin,” he says. “Let me use your phone.”

“You coming out for it?”

He unfolds his arms and climbs his way up the shower to a standing position that favors the heel of his right foot. He directs his face into the shower spray once more to capture the feeling of his face being washed away. Then Erik turns the water off and opens his eyes. “Yeah.”

Pulling the wet shirt over his head is a struggle. Once free, he drops it on the floor, but leaves his wet pants on. He takes the towel off the shower door’s rack and rubs at his hair. The light coming under the door is strong, it must be sunny and bright on the other side. Erik’s throat works but he manages to swallow past the lump there and pull the door open.

As expected, the light is blinding. Erik’s thankful Darwin’s tall dark frame helps mitigate the glare of the early afternoon sun. Darwin looks him up and down and shakes his head, but doesn’t give Erik any pity. “I bet you looked a lot worse before you went in there.”

“Likely,” Erik says and adjusts the towel to drape over his face enough to shield his eyes from the brightness.

Darwin reaches past and turns on the bathroom light. He gestures toward the toilet. “Sit down and let me take a look at you while you use my phone.”

It seems like a good idea: his feet hurt. Using the heel of his right foot and the ball of his left, he turns and sits down on the toilet’s lid. Darwin hands him the phone and Erik marvels for a moment at how warm the phone is. He marvels more at the time; the person he wants to call might even be off work. Numb fingers pick out the number he couldn’t remember before.

Kneeling in the cramped bathroom with him, Darwin gently picks up one of Erik’s feet by the ankle. “You might need stitches for this.”

“Hello,” she says, and Erik knows that edge to her voice; the guarded one that says she has an idea of who’s calling but isn’t quite sure.

“Moira. It’s Erik.”

“I thought I recognized that dialing prefix,” she says easily, but he knows she’s guarded. “Since you never make social calls, why don’t you tell me what’s up?”

“I lost Dr. Frost’s card.”

“I see,” Moira replies. She sighs and says nothing for a few moments. Erik can hear the sound of people talking in the background. “If you need to talk to Emma, you must be in a bad way. Have you hurt anyone?”

“No,” Erik says.

“Then you hurt yourself.” It’s not a question.

Erik looks down at Darwin as he inspects the other foot; neither one is bleeding much anymore. “Yes.”

Her sigh comes over the connection once more. “You know she’s just going to tell you what she always tells you, Erik. Until you face what happened you’ll always be full of rage.”

If Erik hadn’t already burned himself until only a husk remained, his anger would have had him at that, but he only feels a fraction of the earlier heat. “You aren’t my shrink; Frost is.”

“Technically,” Moira replies, “she hasn’t been for more than five years, Erik, and we both know the judge granted that more for her than for you. I’m not even involved in parole, anymore. I’ve moved on; time you did, too. Don’t you miss your family? That girl that used to visit you? Magda, wasn't it?”

“Easy words,” Erik says and leans his head against the wall next to him. He uses his free hand to shield his eyes from the bathroom lights. There’s a harsh exhalation over the phone and the beginnings of speech, but Erik ends the call abruptly and offers the phone back to Darwin. He doesn’t want to see Charles, but it’s the only way to get Frost's old number if he’s doesn’t want to play by Moira’s rules.

Darwin takes the phone and slips it in his pocket with one hand and catches Erik’s hand with the other. It hurts. “These need ice and your right foot might need stitches. Stay here while I run to the shop to get ice and our first aid kit.”

The towel slips back as Erik nods; he pulls it back over his head with his free hand. “There’s a kit in the cabinet over the microwave, but no ice.”

Erik only waits for the crunch of glass and the sound of the front door closing before he pushes himself up to his feet. It hurts even though he doesn’t put any pressure on the cuts. Avoiding the bathroom mirror on the way, Erik hobbles slowly from the claustrophobic bathroom.

Sunlight illuminates the studio as it is wont to do in the early afternoon; it hides none of the spaces that Erik has laid waste. The white walls are scarred, the couch he refurbished is halfway through the pass-through, and none of the tablets he framed are on the walls. There are patches of congealing blood on the floor that show his final path to the bathroom; they are scattered amongst the detritus of dry wall, ceramic shards, and shattered plastic.

Erik pauses his careful, and painful, footsteps to readjust the towel over his head. He brings the long sides of the grey towel down evenly over the sides of his face and pulls the forward edge so it hangs back down over his eyes. Limited vision makes it marginally easier to shield himself against the full realization of his monstrousness. It isn’t the first time he’s thought Moira and Dr. Frost were wrong about him and he doubts it will be the last.

Watching his steps to avoid making his feet any worse, Erik moves on to the studio and the fluttering paper that glows like a paper lantern. He stares at the lines of it, the clear black ink over the shadows of his draft. If reality is obliterated possibility, then this image is a lie. The hand Erik reaches out to the paper is swollen, skinned, and purple with bruising but even as stiff as his fingers are, he can still tear the two sheets of damaged paper down. He crushes the paper, focusing less on the feel of the destruction, or the hundreds of angles and shades of shadow the compression creates, but on obliterating possibility.

* * *

Raven parks the truck a block up the street that leads down to Quicksilver. The trip in has been slow-going for all their need for urgency; the encounter with the police has left Raven with a compulsion to drive the exact speed limit. Charles’ has washed and dried his seat; only a faint vestige of reddish orange had come off the dark upholstery, but even that little bit could be painful. However, even after no more traces of orange came away from the seat, Charles continued to scrub; it was far better an activity than thinking about what might have set Erik off.

For her part, after talking to Kitty, Raven has been quiet, but now they’ve stopped and the truck is ticking as the engine cools, stress is beginning to show just as clearly as the dark smudges under her eyes. She hits the steering wheel lightly multiple times, the spare set of Erik’s keys jangle in her hand.

“He has to know,” Raven says. “He had to have heard me or figure it out. I’m so stupid. God, why am I so stupid?”

“Raven, no.” Charles lays a hand on her closest fist and pulls it from the steering wheel. “Erik is his own man and if he’s gone off like this it was probably inevitable. It was bound to happen sooner or later, let’s just be thankful he was alone when it did.”

Raven shoots Charles a vicious look and snorts. “Why don’t you tell the scratches on Erik’s face it was inevitable?”

The mark strikes true; Charles’ hand retreats to press against his chest. “ _Touché_.”

They exit the truck’s shadowed interior together and jog down the sun-struck sidewalk and across the street to the brick building. Charles suspects Raven is setting a rapid pace to race her nerves; he can respect that. He doesn’t want to see Erik, he doesn’t feel ready, but he also has every intention of defending Raven if need be. That is, after all, what Charles has done all his life; there’s nothing more important than protecting Raven from others, though now he knows he must also protect her from himself.

But it’s sad, he thinks as he sees Erik’s bicycle locked out front, that he can’t somehow protect Erik, too. Not when just yesterday it seemed so obvious that Erik was in need of something. He wishes he had never seen the tears well up and escape Erik’s eyes or the bewilderment and confusion on Erik’s face that tears had come at all. He wishes he hadn’t been so scared to touch Erik at that time.

They hurry inside the building and up the stairs to the landing. The evidence of Erik’s destructive path is obvious even from the stairs: the shop door’s lead glass is shattered. Dozens of glass daggers point into the empty point of impact where no glass remains. Raven hesitates as she approaches the door, but Charles moves ahead, much more accustomed to the sometimes destructive fits their stepfather was prone to. Charles has always been the expert in such situations.

He reaches out and opens the door to a hallway strewn with broken glass and thick shards of jagged pottery. Along the wall lies a broken, black umbrella covered in the same debris. Charles vaguely remembers there being a vase inside the door that was used for an umbrella stand; he hopes it wasn’t valuable. The door has always afforded a view straight through the gallery and studio, but the view is now blocked with the shop’s antique couch. The piece of furniture is legs-up in the wall’s big square pass-through like some red velvet beast in the throes of rigor mortis.

A hand, Raven’s surely, falls gently on Charles’ back. It is both a comfort and a reminder that Charles has paused in the doorway with his hand frozen on the handle. Remembering how to behave around Kurt, Charles draws himself up and walks in with manufactured calm.

The gallery makes a vague impression on him; more of the broken pottery, but also broken frames, water, shattered tablets, and glass from Raven’s original art. The most disturbing sight is the dark blood smeared on the floor, but it has no power to hold his attention the way Erik’s bare back does. Erik is facing away from the doorway to the work space, wet denim low on his hips, a towel draped over his head, and a crushed paper ball in his right hand.

“Erik?” Charles asks with a strength he had no idea he could possess after his recent acquaintance with pepper spray and asphalt.

The towel dips down and Erik’s right wrist flicks awkwardly to the side to toss the paper ball away, but as had happened less frequently lately, Erik declines to take part in the conversation.

Raven begins to step around from behind Charles; he’s quick to grasp her wrist and shake his head. She ignores his caution and speaks out all the same, “Erik, are you okay?”

The line of Erik’s shoulders bows down slightly but then drags back up when he lifts his head. He reaches to pull the towel down around his neck. “Cancel my appointments for the next week so I can clean up. If anybody calls, I’m not taking any new appointments; I’ll finish all my commitments and then I’m done.”

“Erik?” Raven pulls her wrist away from Charles but doesn’t move forward. “Erik, what do you mean you’ll be done? Why don’t you wait a couple days to make any business decisions?”

“Thank you for the clean up this morning.” His back remains to them, his face to the windows. “I’ll take care of it from here.”

“Is this why you left New York?” Charles asks. “Because you couldn’t control your temper?”

Erik’s head turns at that. Charles’ looks at Erik’s profile and sees no fire, no anger, nothing he can really discern. “You could say that.”

He finally turns to face them. Erik is remarkably clean and put together for somebody that just destroyed his own shop. If not for the terrible condition of his knuckles and the scratches on his face, the only mystery would be his thoroughly wet pants. “You could also say it’s because I killed a man with my bare hands. Sebastian Shaw: look it up some time.”

“You really were wearing a tether when I met you.” Raven’s voice is small and confused. “My girlfriend said she saw it.”

Erik says nothing, his eyes are directed toward the floor, his face tilted to the side.

“Are you aware the sort of damage you might have done to your hands and wrists by throwing this tantrum?” Charles asks, and he does his best to ask with an even voice. This is not at all like all the times he confronted Kurt or Sharon after all; they were predictable at least. This isn’t like Erik, either, his usual intensity of purpose is absent. It’s as if the explosion of fury that had him lay waste to the shop took out some crucial defiance with it.

A grim, humorless curve of lips prefaces Erik’s answer. “You’re not even surprised. I’m an animal that never should have been let out of Rikers. I knew; just didn’t want it to be true.”

“You’re not an animal,” Raven says, tossing Charles a disapproving look. She begins to approach Erik once more. Again, Charles grasps her wrist and pulls her gently back. This time Raven breaks her hand away and glares at Charles with outraged confusion and frustration. “Erik would _never_ hurt me.”

Charles sees Erik’s cool gaze slip from Raven to Charles’ restraining hand. “I left a business card with your phone this morning. Do you have it?”

The slim wallet is in the back pocket of his black chinos, but he takes his phone out of his front pocket first. “Do you mind if I save the number?”

“Do what you want, just give me the card.”

Charles retrieves his wallet and slides the old card from within. He dutifully plugs its numbers into his phone and when he looks up again Raven has moved away from him and has taken one of Erik’s battered hands into hers.

He didn’t think his stomach could get more upset today, but Charles feels it twist in conflict as he watches Raven look over the geography of Erik’s swollen knuckles. Two conflicting desires surface: the impulse to pull her away to protect her and the need to take those hands into his. Without proper wrapping before a fight there’s no end to the damage a fighter can do to their hands or wrists. Looking at Erik’s damaged knuckles inspires feelings of protectiveness and fear in Charles.

“I’m so tired,” Raven says. “I don’t want to deal with all this, but Erik, you’re not an animal. You’re not. Nothing in your past is going to change how I feel about you. Not even trashing the shop or my art. You’re my friend and I love you; you make my life better.”

Erik allows Raven to turn one hand over in hers, to rub her thumb over the red and purpling flesh between the skinned knuckles. He continues to say nothing, but that means he isn’t denying her claims yet. Then Erik raises his eyes and looks over her shoulder.

Charles bites the inside of his cheek, uncomfortable with Erik’s difficult gaze and his own inability to make a proper decision. He walks forward and proffers the card right above Raven’s hand in a bid to manipulate Erik into pulling his hand away from her.

Charles’ will falters as the grim smile of before makes a return, but Erik makes the trade before Charles can withdraw it. Erik gives up Raven’s hand for the rectangular slip of old cardstock. An uneven gait delivers Erik right beside Charles; he lowers his head so they’re roughly cheek to cheek. “I believed you, but you didn’t even believe it yourself.”

“What are you talking about?” Charles sputters in response, except Erik has already pushed past. Charles knows what Erik is saying and creeping feelings of shame keep his head down low. Over his shoulder and from beneath his eyelashes, he watches Erik limp toward the door where Darwin has entered unnoticed. Darwin has a plastic box under his arm and two bags of ice in one hand. His dark eyes are inscrutable.

“Ready for the hospital?” Darwin asks.

Erik pulls the towel up over his head and shoulders again. He doesn’t reply, but his answer is obvious enough when he joins Darwin and the two head out of the shop together.

“What was that?”

Charles turns back to Raven only to find her in his personal space, hands on hips, chin up and defiance simmering in her dark eyes. “Charles, you know Erik’s not an animal. Why didn’t you help me?”

“The man just trashed his own shop and your artwork,” Charles returns quietly.

“And you trashed my show last night,” Raven replies. She lifts an authoritative finger into the small space between her face and Charles’. “You hit Erik and scratched his face; Sean saw the whole thing. So you have zero right to judge.”

There’s no power or anger in him as he pushes Raven’s finger away with the back of his hand. The same hand lifts to meet his forehead. His fingers linger on his brow, press at his skin in frustration; he pushes back, tangling fingers in his tousled hair. Charles keeps his eyes low. The accuracy of Raven’s statement is the fixing agent added to the concrete shoes he’s poured himself. The worst part is that he know he’s wrong and is struggling to let go.

“God,” Raven says. Her hands drop to her sides with a loud slap of flesh against her jeans. “This is the clusterfuck of all clusterfucks and it hasn’t even been a full twenty-four hours. There’s still time for it to get worse.”

Twenty-four hours ago, Charles thinks, twenty-four hours ago Erik finished Xi’an’s talisman tattoo. Less than twenty-four hours ago Erik teared up when Charles had suggested that Erik’s best feature was making Raven smile. Little more than twelve hours ago he attacked Erik. Twelve hours ago he was sleeping in Erik’s bed while Erik slept on the couch. Fewer than twelve he’d decided he was more a tyrant and less a brother to Raven. Just that morning he and Erik had incredible sex and, if he clenches his ass, Charles _can still feel it_.

 _I let a murderer fuck me_ , Charles thinks to himself and shudders in what he hopes is revulsion, otherwise he’s exploring a new level of depravity. He wonders if Erik got the STD in prison. And then, what if Erik _did_ get the STD in prison? The first thing Charles thinks about prison is not how it has failed to rehabilitate inmates but its reputation for sex crimes.

Charles winces and takes out his phone and opens a web browser while Raven wanders around the shop’s destruction in the background. Charles types _sebastian shaw_ into the search field. The top responses are for the actor that played the unmasked Darth Vader in the original Star Wars movies, but after some digging he finds a few articles about the shocking murder of a Manhattan prosecuting attorney.

Charles closes his eyes. He’s not sure he should research this after all the stresses of the day, but morbid fascination spurs him on. He inhales a deep breath of burnt and unburnt incense-laden air and opens his eyes.

He discovers that Erik was a minor when he strangled Sebastian Shaw on the courthouse steps one night fifteen years ago. Erik’s name isn’t mentioned, but as Charles reads his mind helpfully fills it in every time ‘the minor’ and ‘the suspect’ show up. He learns that Sebastian Shaw was previously involved in a traffic accident that left Erik’s mother in a coma. She succumbed to death roughly a week before Shaw’s murder. Little else about his fate surfaces.

Another long sigh fills Charles’ lungs and expands his ribcage. Just this morning, over French toast and ginger marmalade, Charles had almost asked Erik who it was he’d failed to protect. Now he knows. He wishes he could find information about the accident that eventually claimed Erik’s mother, but fifteen years ago the internet was young and stories of traffic accidents weren’t as likely to be found on a newspaper’s website.

“Did you say Erik’s thirty-three?” Charles asks.

Raven has retrieved a broom and is starting to push and sweep the worst of Erik’s destruction to the walls. She answers absently as she works, obviously not fully heeding Erik’s intention to clean the shop himself. “Thirty-four; he had a birthday recently.”

“He really did kill this Sebastian Shaw.” Charles’ voice holds none of the accusation he wants it to. “Shaw was a prosecuting attorney that may have accidentally killed Erik’s mother in a car accident. Erik was a minor; probably seventeen years old when he did it.”

“Prosecutor?” Raven looks up from the growing space she’s clearing, her brows come together and point up. “Erik must’ve gotten nailed to a wall.” Her eyes close in thought and she continues slowly, “Okay, so was he tried as an adult? What was he sixteen or seventeen? I met him my second year at SVA… so I was twenty-one? What year did he do it?”

Charles unlocks his phone and opens the browser again. “1997, I think.”

“When I met him he was on parole.” Raven opens her eyes again. “He must have served less than ten years. Huh, I guess he was tattooing in prison; skill like that doesn’t just appear overnight. You know, you don’t need much to make a prison rig and I know he used to work on people at parties and raves before he got a name in New York.”

“He was so young,” Charles says quietly. His thumb absently scrolls the article up and down; he stares at the words without reading them. “I wonder what Jewish law says about murder? Eye for an eye, wasn’t it?”

“I’m sure it’s pretty harsh.” She takes the broom past him and he hears her sweeping more debris. “As it should be. But at seventeen, with your mom dead, I just don’t know. Erik’s a good guy; other than you he’s done more for me than anyone. If it weren’t for him I wouldn’t be as happy with my life as I am. I wouldn’t even have met Hank.”

“If you saw him with the tether,” Charles muses aloud, “then he served his time and parole.”

“As far as I’m concerned,” Raven replies, “he’s served his time and he’s making good. It just worries me that he wrecked the place.”

“Maybe he’s hung up on his mother’s death,” Charles says quietly. “Whether or not the attorney was a vengeance-killing, it makes sense for him to move as far away from New York as he could. He probably would have liked to have moved overseas, back to Germany perhaps, but maybe his felony conviction makes that impossible.”

“Maybe he’s avoiding family,” Raven adds. “Kitty said he wouldn’t talk about his family at all.”

“Erik’s as bad as I am when it comes to talking about anything in his past,” Charles says. He thinks again about all the things Erik’s let slip through, though. “And obviously worse when it comes to... admitting the things that trouble him.”

“Oh Charles,” Raven says. Charles remains in place, staring at his phone even after its face has gone dark. He hears Raven’s trainers on the wooden floor as they bring her closer and then she’s at his side. She announces herself by tapping the broom’s haft gently against his shoulder.

“Help me clear the floor,” she says. “I’m not going to really clean, but I want the floor to be clear at least. Erik’s going to need to do the rest.”

Keeping busy sounds like the best thing he could do. Charles closes his grip around the broom just beneath Raven’s hand. “I wish the stereo wasn’t part of his path of destruction; it’s awfully quiet in here.”

“Run one of your playlists on your phone,” Raven says. “Something upbeat, maybe. Anyway, it shouldn’t take an hour just to push everything to the walls.”

Charles nods his agreement and while Raven is off getting another broom, he queues up a playlist that isn’t exactly up beat but includes Shostakovich’s Second Waltz. He sets his phone on the couch’s belly and contemplates his broom. The first time he really used one was in his boxing club days; the nostalgia of those days lightens his mood. The slight burn of the broom under palms grown soft over the years grounds him. As he did in then, and he does in many a stranger’s bed, Charles veils his circuitous thoughts in the physical sensation of exertion. Anything is better than thinking about Erik.

Without giving each other verbal instructions, Charles and Raven focus on their silently agreed on rooms. Charles sweeps the entryway and gallery space while Raven concentrates on the work room. He doesn’t even notice the music, hard as it is to hear despite the device’s best intentions. But during the flute solo of Prokofiev’s _Dance of Knights_ , he hears a strangled noise from Raven.

His head shoots up in alert but the view through the railroad tie wall is clogged. “Raven, is something wrong? Something else?”

“Ah, no, not really.” Her voice is hasty and rings with what Charles knows from long experience is optimistic-sounding bullshit.

He sets the broom against the wall and heads for the doorway to the studio space. Between the gentle concussions of his rapid footsteps Charles hears the sound of crumpling paper. He finds Raven crouched near Erik’s desk, which carries the preponderance of the velvet couch on its surface. She’s folding up a ragged set of papers into a haphazard rectangle. There’s no need for him to ask what she’s found; his actions alone pose the question. Her bottom lip being held in her teeth is answer enough that whatever language she uses will be constructed to deflect.

Prokofiev turns into Tchaikovsky before either of them speak.

Raven presses the folded paper to her chest and ducks her head down. Charles can only barely make out her question. “Did something, um, emotional happen between you and Erik? You don’t have to tell me, just curious is all.”

It’s a perfect deflection; Charles is thrown completely off. Emotions churn up from his gut and down from his chest to meet in an intermediary place of discord. Because, try to dance around it and equivocate it away as much as he’d like, Charles knows the truth but has no strategy to face it. So, in the sudden confusion he simply blurts forth the four damning words.

“I made him cry.”

Raven’s face turns up in shock. Her mouth drops open and above her round cheeks her eyes flutter to hold back what Charles fears could be tears. Charles rushes to dispel the possibility of more tears with a rush of words. “I was trying to help him, I really was. He asked me what his best feature was and I told him it was his presence in your life.”

Far from dispelling her tears, Charles’ words encourages them. Raven gasps out, chokes and flings herself up from her crouch and into his arms. He staggers under the force of her sudden weight and incomprehensible grief. “Oh Charles,” she gasps into his chest. “Oh God, Charles.”

Bewildered, he holds Raven as her tears turn into uncontrollable, shaking sobs. It’s the stress, he tells himself, all the stress and she’s finally breaking under the massive pressure. He holds her tight and she clutches him about his neck and continues to cry with such uncontrolled power that he grows increasingly upset, too.

He’s not sure the exact root of her distress, but it unlocks something within him and soon, unbelievably, his nose is running, his eyes burning, and then he’s gasping for air between equally violent sobs. How is it, he wonders, that he can feel so empty and bereft even with Raven in his arms? What has become of him when his sister is insufficient to fill the sucking void within him?

No, the truth is plain enough. Charles knows he’s thrown away something he wanted but never really had and that he gave Erik something important and has, within the same twenty-four hours, taken that thing away. All he has is the lingering sensation from the friction of Erik’s cock and if their sex had truly been impersonal he wouldn’t be clinging to that fading feeling even now.

But crying can’t last forever. When the sobs finally subside and they’re both sniffling and exhausted, Charles helps Raven pull the shop schedule book out from under the couch. She has phone calls to make; a week’s worth of cancellations and rescheduling. Charles suggests it’s enough and that they should go home once she’s called people for the next few days.

It’s strange to lock the door behind them as they go, the glass in the door is broken after all, but Raven goes through the motions. They’re wordless as she drives them back to her loft at the exact posted speed limit. There’s little to say when they get back to the loft and find Janos drinking hard liquor from the bottle and stirring vegetables in a large skillet. Though the weather hardly calls for it, there’s a light-weight scarf wrapped around his neck.

He glances at them with a frown and hazy eyes. “Twenty minutes for tortilla Española.”

“Azazel?” Charles asks gently.

Janos turns back to the skillet and his vegetables and takes a drink from the bottle next to him on the bench.

Raven sighs and pulls Charles toward her bedroom. “We’re starving, but we both need sleep. Can you leave some for us?”

A nod is the only reply.

* * *

The hospital trip is expensive, the subsequent meds are expensive, a new cell phone is expensive, shop repairs and clean-up will also be expensive, but camping by the ocean is free. The weather is depressingly gorgeous and drives Erik into the waves over and over and over again in search of a melancholy habitat that matches his mood. He’s not really sure what he’s doing out there amongst the Douglas fir, the trails, and the rocks that give way to a small, sandy beaches other than avoiding the disaster he’s made of his life in Portland. He’s certainly not doing his tattoos any good out in the sun, 50 SPF or not.

Darwin had told him to be careful when he dropped Erik off by Raven’s building to collect his truck. The wrapping on his right wrist and the metacarpal splint on his left have made it hard to be anything but careful. The limitations his self-inflicted injuries have forced on him also keep him firmly attached to who and what he is. He has to wrap his arms in plastic each time he wants to go into the water and opening store-bought food is a work in progress. Washing salt from his hair is a pain in the ass.

Erik would like nothing more to be like the many animals he sees along the coast with their lack of self-awareness; always absorbed in their instincts. The closest he can get is sitting on the rocks as the tide comes crashing in. The feel of the spray, the scent of the fir trees and salty water, the sound of the waves crashing all around him; Erik allows himself to be hypnotized by the steady rhythm of the ocean’s inevitable rise and fall.

For two days, Erik camps near the ocean and though he slowly finds a center of calm in all his internal turbulence, he’s not satisfied. Even under constraint, he finds his fingers remembering the feel of the column of flesh that had connected Sebastian Shaw Esq.’s head to his trapezius muscles. His fingers strain to curl in memory and his thumbs push at a phantom larynx. Erik doesn’t regret that moment, that death, at all; it was always problematic when it came to attaining parole but he’s never been anything but honest about it. He would do it again. He _wants_ to kill him a hundred-thousand times more.

It was Moira McTaggert that argued that Erik’s honesty about the murder was worth recognizing (though she warned him to never embellish) and it was Moira that paved the way for him to start meeting with Dr. Emma Frost. Much of the game of law and order is lip service; everyone knows people like Erik have no remorse for their crimes, but that’s less important than playing the game and upholding the illusion of justice. If there was any justice at all Erik and thousands of teenagers like him wouldn’t serve months of solitary in Rikers _before_ and after trial.

Before solitary, Erik never had a problem with spacing out the way he sometimes does now. He thinks of it as ‘spacing out’ but Emma Frost called it dissociative episodes. She said that he was relatively fortunate; long stints in solitary have wrought far worse developmental effects in teenage populations. His daily meditations help with the dissociation just as much as it helps with his never-ending anger.

Even though he has Dr. Frost’s card back and despite the major episode, Erik doesn’t call her. It’s enough that he has her card and he knows he can call if need be, because Moira is right; Dr. Frost will always tell him he can’t make any more progress until he faces what happened before he murdered Shaw.

But while Erik can sometimes think about his mother without getting angry, he’d much rather not. Instead he plans for the future; a future that won’t include the Pacific Northwest, much less Quicksilver. He’s thankful he doesn’t need a background check to work in the EU thanks to his German passport.

For a moment he thinks of opening a shop in England, but that’s too close to Charles and Charles has, as Khalil Gibran has written, both crowned and crucified him. No, fuck Charles. Bad enough that the International Tattoo Show is in London every September.

Erik returns to Quicksilver on Monday morning. A slew of messages light up his new phone the moment he comes into range of a phone tower. Almost half are from Charles; he doesn’t bother reading those.

Though his hands, wrist, and feet have had two days of rest, the cleaning process is as physically painful as it is emotionally. He notes that Raven was smart to make cleaning safer by pushing the worst of the detritus to the walls and collects the fruits of her effort first. Pulling the couch from the pass-through is a challenge, hampered as he is with a wrist wrap and metacarpal splint. The couch is in surprisingly good condition despite the violence he visited on it; the back rest will need reinforcing and only one leg will need to be replaced.

He’s in the middle of getting an estimate for the front door’s repair when Erik sees the ground floor door open and Kitty come up the stairs. He doesn’t want to see her or anyone else. He doesn’t want to look at people that have only recently learned the kind of person he’s been all along.

All the same, the door to Quicksilver is dangerous so Erik opens it for her. Carefully, she slips quietly past him as he finishes his phone call and slips over to the gallery space’s factory windows. She sets a small, brown paper bag on the windowsill. There’s no grease or oil stains on the paper; it mustn’t be muffins or boyos this time.

Erik slips his phone into a pocket. “This isn’t a good time.”

“Yeah, I know.” Kitty nods and picks at the paper bag’s folded top; she carefully ceases the top fold by pinching it and sliding her fingers along the length of it. “I wanted to bring you your phone, though. The one you broke. Alex found it in the alley.”

Reminded, Erik glances back at the hole in the work space’s window; torn remains of paper and colorful tape box in the unrealistic project. “Thank you. You can leave it there.”

Kitty nods but doesn’t leave her spot at the window. She sucks in her lips and glances at him a couple times, gathering strength for something, and then turns to face Erik directly. “Are you sure you don’t want to visit Ahavath Achim with me for Yom Kippur next month? Nobody’s going to say anything to you about your tattoos.”

Erik frowns at that. Yom Kippur is the last High Holiday he would want to visit a shul on. He doesn’t need, want, or deserve the forgiveness of the Jewish New Year. The mere idea is repellent enough that Erik’s stomach tightens.

“Have you ever considered,” Erik says, “that they should? That your mother isn’t wrong?”

Kitty’s mouth opens to protest before Erik’s words elicit the confusion she obviously didn’t expect. Her mouth snaps shut. Erik moves past her to the work space, his patience and will to smooth her downy feathers at an end. She eventually trails him, but stops in the gallery on the other side of the railroad tie wall. She leans against the ledge, the edge pressing a horizontal line against her thighs.

Erik turns his back on her to concentrate on the broken window; he’ll have to call in somebody else for this, too.

“Erik, were you Orthodox?” Kitty’s voice is hushed and hesitant. “If my mom’s not wrong to criticize your tattoos, why would you do this? Why do you tattoo?”

“I was Hassidic for a few years, but that has nothing to do with it. Either there’s G-d or there isn’t. If you and your mother believe in the G-d of Abraham, then you should criticize.” He reaches up to the window and starts stripping masking tape away. “But I don’t believe in the G-d of our fathers and that means my art is open to me.”

“But Jews can have tattoos, Erik,” Kitty replies. “It isn’t so black and white. There’s so much gray in our world and there’s got to be room for your profession under G-d’s eyes.”

“No, Kitty.” Erik pulls another strip of masking tape down, and in the process ends up dropping the first bit he pulled on the floor. His hands are better, but his mobility continues to suffer thanks to stiffness. “He forgives, but I would have to be penitent to receive that forgiveness and I’m not. And even if I was, I’m not interested in being forgiven for finding my calling. No just god would give me a talent like this and then forbid me to use it.”

He crouches to pick the masking tape up from the floor. Above him Kitty’s chin juts in stubborn denial, but she gives no voice to a counter argument. 

* * *

Portland International Airport is unremarkable as far as Charles is concerned, it only seems to have a pleasant scent of ocean air. In all other respects, the eateries, the luxury brand shops, the moving walkways and open spaces, it is uninspiring.

Erik never replies to any of the messages Charles sends. None of the apologies nor the sincere messages of encouragement. Raven hasn’t seen Erik at all, but they’ve talked about scheduling and work over the phone and she’ll be returning to Quicksilver on Sunday. According to Raven, Erik refuses to talk about Charles. She thinks Erik needs time to work through what she thinks might be embarrassment or shame. Charles thinks Erik hates him and doesn’t really blame him.

Today is Friday, one week since everything went so bad. Raven, Janos, and even Sean are seeing Charles off amidst the vaulted ceilings and echoing departure announcements. They’re standing outside international departures security where they have attracted only a little more attention than what is likely usual. They make an interesting group; the tattooed woman, the Spanish model, the ginger DJ, and the Oxford professor.

After a few moments of awkward silence, Sean suddenly breaks and gives Charles a hug. “You’re coming back next month or something for that traffic ticket, yeah? Sue the hell out of ‘em.”

Charles accepts the hug, his mood improving under the sheer youthful energy Sean exudes. “September or October, my lawyer hasn’t the date.”

“You’re always welcome,” he says and passes Charles a USB drive as he takes a step back. “I made you a mix. I tried to mash-up some classics, but I didn’t know if you’d like that, so there’s other stuff, too. I won’t be offended if you don’t like anything.”

Raven’s friends are surprising in their warmth; it’s like the American childhood Charles never knew. He doesn’t say anything, but he pulls Sean back into another hug. When he pulls back this time, Sean’s ears are burning in embarrassment.

Janos is next, but he doesn’t hug Charles, instead he shakes his hand and pats him firmly on the back. For the last week nobody has heard or seen Azazel and it’s been quietly surmised that Janos’ move to New York was unacceptable to the Russian. Charles catches Janos’ bicep before he moves out of reach and says, “Raven and I have many contacts in New York and we intend to share them with you. Keep in touch.”

Janos nods and lowers his eyes for a moment. “Because I’m moving next month, I won’t see you next time you come here. Tell me when you visit New York.”

Charles nods and looks up into Janos’ eyes. He sees the offer of a casual sexual relationship in the depths of Janos’ dark gaze and, unbelievably, feels no desire come up to meet it. But Charles tells himself ‘waste not want not’ and manufactures interest by swiping his tongue over his lower lip. “I’ll see you in New York then.”

Janos’ eyes flick to Charles’ lip and then he smiles and nods.

Last is Raven and when she throws her arms over his shoulders to hug him both Sean and Janos wander a few steps away to give them a semblance of privacy I the busy departures area. It’s a long embrace; warm and loving and affectionate even with one of Charles’ hands clutching his passport and ticket.

“If you want to call me before or after your first meeting with your therapist you can,” Raven says. “I’m really proud of you for doing it.”

“Please don’t patronize,” Charles says with a comedic whine; he kisses her hair immediately after, but she still punches him lightly in the stomach. “I’m sorry we could never talk about how I patronize you. Maybe one day I can make that kind of progress.”

Raven pulls her fist from his stomach and rests her arm on his shoulder again. “Even if we can never go there, I’ll still love you. It really is a big step, okay?”

“If Erik…”

Raven shakes her head. “Erik needs time, Charles. Leave him alone. But if you really want to go for it, you do have a chance.”

“I do?”

Her blue shoulders lift slightly in a minimal shrug and then she takes her arms off his shoulders and pulls her bag in front of her. From within the studded and fringed, black leather she withdraws a familiar sight: the rectangular wad of paper Raven had folded up the last time they were in Quicksilver together. It’s creased and torn and looks more like a hunk of garbage than any sort of chance. He hadn’t thought much about it at the time, but it takes on a new weight now that Raven is linking it with his so-called chance.

Charles tucks his passport and ticket into his breast pocket and takes the battered paper into his hands. He glances quickly as Raven as he runs his fingers across the paper’s angular planes and rough edges. “Can I open it?”

Raven takes a breath and exhales slowly. “It’s up to you.”

He turns the folded papers over in his hands without opening them or inspecting the curled corners. There’s little actual weight to the paper, but folded up as it is, it doesn’t feel fragile despite the obvious damage. No pen or pencil marks are evident, but Charles has no doubt that a pearl of knowledge lies within. Whether that treasure is of Raven or Erik’s hand, he doesn’t know.

“I’ll take a look later,” Charles murmurs and presses his lips to Raven’s soft cheek.

“Okay,” she says and kisses him back. “Message me when you get to Heathrow.”

“Of course.” Charles slips the folded mass of paper into his back pocket and takes up his passport and ticket again. “I’ll see you in a few months.”

Raven nods. He can see her blinking away tears that he hopes are related to his departure. It’s terrible to turn away from her shimmering eyes, but he tears himself away and walks through the security gate. He doesn’t look back.

He passes through security with no problems, aware the whole time of the papers in his back pocket. The flight to Vancouver is uneventful, but the plane is small and Charles wants privacy when he opens the paper. It isn’t until after the trash from the next flight’s first meal has been collected that Charles sets the papers on the tray before him.

Above the clouds, in the light of the sun from his window, Charles begins to unfold the paper. As he unfolds it, the light scent of incense and sterilizing products come up off the pages. The scent is so strongly connected with Raven and Erik that a wave of disorientation sweeps over him. When the feeling passes Charles sweeps his hands over the unfolded papers to flatten the many creases that have divided the surface into hundreds of geometric planes. The sunlight reveals an unfinished work rendered in strong, graphic lines.

The lines form two equine busts joined at a common collar or base; it looks like two knight pieces from a chessboard but in the style of a playing card deck’s face card. One head is a regal unicorn with a flowing beard and neatly knotted main. Around its neck is a crown and it has one leg raised in a stately pose. At first, Charles mistakes the other head for a horse; it seems to be screaming; it has claw marks on its face. Its beard and mane are wild and the crown around its neck is inverted and cuts into the beast’s neck.

Charles isn’t sure which head is supposed to be the top or bottom, but he’s opened the drawing with the unicorn head at the top. To take a better look at the other bust, he turns the paper around. A sudden jolt takes his breath away: the other head isn’t a horse at all, but a unicorn with its horn broken off.

For long seconds Charles stares, mind blank despite the sudden recognition. And then he scrambles for his messenger bag and the reading glasses he has stashed within. With fumbling fingers, he tears the glasses from their case and slips them on to take an even closer look at the ink lines. They’re confident lines; no signs of haste or corrections. The ink is perfectly delivered and runs thick and thin without accident or repetition. He’s convinced that the hands that drew this were the same he watched at the Incubator show when Erik ran the odd-looking lettering brush over glass.

Charles runs his finger over the lines, the graphic work, time after time, looking for more clues, more coded speech before turning to the second page. The second page is rendered in rough pen marks and holds far more detail. In this drawing he can see blocks of shading, the horses’ veins, the preliminary shapes Erik used. It also holds three extra pieces of information: there is a rectangular background with rounded corners that represent the shape of a playing card. In each corner of the wild unicorn’s background are two spear heads that must represent spades. But in the other unicorn’s background there is only one anatomically correct heart in a corner.

The other heart is conspicuously missing.


	16. Imaginary animals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next and final chapter is _already written_ and will be uploaded this weekend. 
> 
> There will be a fairly short epilogue which should also go up this weekend. At that time I will mark the fic complete, however, I will upload a final pseudo chapter of cut scenes for completists as well as some of the asks and answers from the [Ask tattoo fic Charles and Erik series on Tumblr](http://euphorbic.tumblr.com/tagged/ask-tattoo-fic-Charles-or-Erik).
> 
> Speaking of Ask tattoo fic Charles or Erik, I'm going to open thing up to a final round of asks around the time the epilogue goes up.

 

The London International Tattoo Show is by invitation only and this year is only Erik’s second year going but third invitation to do so. Last year he hadn’t gone but this year he’d made all the arrangements back in February. He’d invited Raven along to run as reception and interference, but she’d said she didn’t want to go for personal reasons. Now he knows what those reasons were and for similar reasons, and his dislike of tattoo conventions in general, Erik wishes he’d taken a pass on this year, too.

The show goes on at Tobacco Dock in a two hundred year-old brick complex in east London. The dock comes complete with decorative wrought iron trim and several cavernous vaults with arched brick ceilings. In recent years it was converted to a shopping center that never took off and has since been working itself out of massive debt as an event venue and has finally made good use of the space. The London Tattoo Show isn’t the only event that uses Tobacco Dock, but Erik doubts any other event except hypothetical Lovecraft or steam punk conventions would look more appropriate in the space.

For the sake of aesthetics and common sense, Erik’s pleased the management placed him in one of the brick vaults as far away from the music stage or the presentation room as possible. While most of the canned music doesn’t get on his nerves, he doesn’t like the live music’s vibrations or having to play his over-ear headphones at a volume that’s detrimental to his hearing. The presentations annoy him just because he doesn’t see the point in tattoo conventions, let alone one doubling as a motorcycle or ratrod show. Erik doesn’t believe in a tattoo lifestyle; that’s all a game of pretension as far as he’s concerned. If he’s honest, though, he knows it’s a game that has hooks in him, too. He participates in shows like this to raise his profile and to network even though shows are far and away the most unhygienic place to work save prisons, raves, and house parties.

The consolation is that he’s ended up nearby several like-minded artists. Since Raven isn’t with him he’s sharing space, and an apprentice, with a French artist he admires but hasn’t met before. Before the show opened its doors he’d spent a few hours talking with people he knows and discussing a tattoo trade with his new neighbor. Erik already has all his time booked; he and Raven set everything up months ago but if all goes well they’ll have time on Sunday when the convention starts winding down.

But by 6pm on Friday night Erik wants the fuck out. This is the ninth London show and the crowd turn-out pales in comparison to the one he worked two years ago. It’s a nightmare of bodies packed into a space with ventilation and cooling that can’t keep up with them. He’s managed to shut the noise out with his headphones and mitigated the heat by rolling up his shirt sleeves, though he wishes he could change to a tank top. Work is the only sure way to go, so he focuses on the buzzing machine in his hand, the tiny cups of ink on his work table, the steady supply of paper towels nearby, and the lines and shading that he perforates into skin.

The only major disruptions come in the form of video crews and their commentators. The French artist’s apprentice would ward them all off Erik if the young man didn’t have to talk to clients or sell Quicksilver’s merch. The first interviewer he misses is a young woman that calls Erik famous but mispronounces his last name every time, says how sweet he is, comments on his shoulder-to-hip ratio, and then sticks her microphone in his face. He ends up pulling his surgical mask down so he can smile hard into the camera and tell them to get the fuck out of his face.

The second crew he remembers from two years ago. This group he allows to film him at work for five minutes once he has his client’s permission, but tells them to come back in an hour when he’s finished. When they come back Erik already has a sign taped to the bricks behind him: _No Filming or Interviews without Prior Appointment_. The interview is brief and positive and Erik is relieved the interviewer asks him interesting and insightful questions. When the cameras are off she flirts a little and Erik doesn’t dissuade her when she asks if he’ll be there until the 2am venue closing time.

If Friday was bad, Saturday is worse, but with fewer interruptions; at the London show Erik isn’t one of the big fishes in the pond. His focus is tight but he worries about sweat dripping onto his machine or his clients. Erik wears a sleeveless shirt and resorts to a bandana to keep sweat sliding off his forehead or down his nose. His French neighbor compliments the bandana and teases him that he’s gone over to the biker tattoo crowd.

By 8pm his wrist aches and he’s ready to be done, but he has one more piece for a client from Bulgaria that’s been trying to get work from him for two years now. That night he sleeps in his hotel room with an icepack wrapped around his wrist.

Sunday afternoon Erik has clocked a total of twenty-four hours of work and he’s wrapped his wrist. He’s had to admit to his French neighbor that he doesn’t think he should do the trade. She agrees and suggests he come work at her studio the next time he wants to travel.

Erik wraps up his last client’s tattoo at nearly 5pm and soon after trades places with the apprentice so he can run and buy all three of them food. Erik hates dealing with the public, but he hates starving even more, so he handles the convention attendees while the French tattooist works on her last client.

Much of the crowd has turned their attention to the award ceremony. Erik doesn’t have anyone in it this year, though he’s sure he had a good chance at winning one or two categories. The crowds are much too much; he doesn’t want to risk getting into trouble after the blow up last month. He watches the ebb and flow of the masses, the bobbing of an ocean of heads under a brick sky, the steady roar of voices that’s too steady to resemble waves.

“I’m sure Raven said your wrist had gotten better.”

The voice brings Erik out of deep space. He has no idea how long he’s been staring, only that his eyes are terribly dry and once he blinks to clear them he is immediately faced with one Charles Xavier.

“Are you feeling well?” Charles asks. “You’ve been standing like a statue for quite a while.”

Erik frowns and focuses all his faculties on Charles. He looks healthy enough, maybe even leaner than he was a month ago. He doesn’t look exactly comfortable, though; Charles’ hands are stuffed in his black denim pockets but his feet are planted and knees slightly bent. Ready for a fight, perhaps?

“You know, I’ve seen the most amazing things here,” Charles continues. “A man painted entirely red, a person dressed as a huge Predator from those Aliens movies, a woman that seemed to be dancing with blood; she slipped, poor dear. I’ve seen a lot of girls wearing very little clothing, bless them, and several men’s naked arses, bless them, too.”

Speech finally arrives on Erik’s tongue. “Is that what you came for?”

“Naked arses?” Charles blinks rapidly, his eyebrows climbing his forehead. “Oh. No, not as such, though I can’t complain.”

It’s surreal. Erik hadn’t wanted to come to the London show because of his outburst in Portland, but he’d also not wanted to court the slim chance of meeting Charles. It had seemed a small enough chance because this is exactly the sort of scene that Charles thinks himself to good for. Erik thought it would be too much for him. Apparently not.

Erik waves his hand toward the crowd. “No, I mean all of this. Did you come to gawk at the illustrated men and women? The freak show?”

Charles shakes his head and, to Erik’s surprise, keeps his eyes and face level. “No, I came for the same thing a lot of people came here for.”

“That _is_ what most people come for,” Erik replies.

One of Charles’ hands comes out of his front pocket and dives inside his back pocket. He brings forth a battered and folded rectangle of papers. He offers them across the table. “I came here for this.”

Against his better judgment Erik immediately takes the paper from Charles’ hand and starts to unfold it. It looks and feels like paper from a sketch pad rather than letter-writing paper. He has the set of papers unfolded to the last two folds when he sees the rough edges, the colorful bits of ripped masking tape, and the hole his phone made. It’s not a letter at all.

Erik’s hands stop moving in the midst of unfolding and then reverse flow; he starts folding it back up. “No.”

“It’s mine,” Charles says so gently that Erik nearly loses the sound to the crowd. “It’s mine, isn’t it?”

Erik takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and tilts his head back until the band from his headphones around his neck digs into his flesh. He homes in on the discomfort and counts back from ten. For the hundredth time he wishes the venue allowed incense; he’d even take a clove cigarette at this point.

When he lowers his head back and opens his eyes, Charles is still there, but now his brow is wrinkled in what appears to be concern.

“Xavier,” Erik says, “your timing couldn’t be worse.”

Charles takes a quick look around the vault, his eyes dart to Erik’s headphones, and then back to the French artist. “I waited for the crowd to thin, but is it not thinned out enough?”

“You have no idea how many hours of this crowd I’ve dealt with so far or how far in advance my clients had to book.”

“Cumulative stress.” Charles has the decency to look chagrined or sympathetic. “But I really didn’t think you were tattooing past 10pm each night even though the first two nights ran until two.”

“I didn’t work past eleven,” Erik admits and hands the folded paper back to Charles. “If you want to talk I’ll have my area broken down and packed up by six. If you help me get out of this place without bloodshed I’ll hear you out, but I don’t owe you that.”

Charles takes the paper back and looks at his watch. “That’s not long from now. I could wait with you or even help.”

Erik swivels his head back and forth. “No. Go watch the awards show or educate yourself on the artform or charm one of the Fuel Girls. Just get away from me until six.”

“Very well.” Charles slips the papers into his back pocket again and turns around. He casts a look over his shoulder but heads off into the crowd.

Erik forms a fist and presses it against his forehead. He resorts to breathing exercises until the French tattoo apprentice shows up again with food from the Quayside Taco Truck. Erik likes to enjoy his food, but this time he wolfs the tacos down and kills the third to last bottle of water in the huge pack from Tesco he’s been sharing with clients and acquaintances.

Half of his breaking-down is already done and doesn’t take long to complete; he’s glad the shirts he brought sold out Saturday and all but a handful of stickers are gone. The rest is clean up and he’s too thorough in that process to finish before Charles returns. This time he sees Charles as he’s stripping the last of the duct tape off the floor from where he’d taped down his electrical cords, but he doesn’t hear anything because his headphones are off his neck and filling his head with rain and low thunder.

It takes a few more minutes until Erik’s finished and then he adjusts the headphones so the cups aren’t directly over his ears, but remain half on. In this state he can hear tracks and Charles both.

“I’m running interference, yes?” Charles asks as Erik approaches with his rolling case of equipment.

“That’s right.” Erik moves next to Charles so the big, black and silver case flanks him on one side and Charles on the other.

It’s not a hasty retreat, Erik has his pride, but he’d like nothing more than to get out of there at a much quicker pace. Getting through the crowds isn’t a simple process. Fortunately, as a guest he doesn’t have to use the same exits as the general populace. Unfortunately, part of being a guest means they’re stopped five times on their way by people that are fans of Erik’s work. Two want him to sign copies of his cover of Sentimental Ink.

Charles makes himself extraordinarily useful by doing his charming best to point out Erik’s wrapped wrist and suggests they save their magazines for next year. However Erik follows Raven’s mantra of customer service tips and pulls his lips into a tired smile and takes the magazines and signs them anyway. It’s bizarre, nobody has ever wanted his signature before: he thinks it must be a byproduct of all the hokey tattoo shows.

“I’ll be travelling Europe in a couple months,” he tells them. “Keep an eye on the Quicksilver website or Facebook for dates and shops I’ll be visiting.”

After the fifth stop he tells Charles to just keep going no matter how rude they have to be. They do just that and Erik finds himself grateful for Charles’ easy way with people; he manages to ward people off with apologetic smiles and a few easy jokes. Erik doesn’t mind playing up and feeding his unpleasant reputation when it benefits him, but it’s better for business when he doesn’t.

They get outside faster than Erik hoped and he breathes in the fresher, if not entirely pleasant, air. There’s still some sun left in the sky, incredibly there’s been sun all weekend, even if it’s nearing the manmade horizon. Erik’s eyes ache with it. At least the headphones are feeding a rainstorm to his ears.

“Would you like a lift to your hotel?” Charles asks, one eyebrow quirked to mirror his query. “I’m parked nearby.”

Erik’s options are limited. He didn’t rent a car, so there’s only the shuttle or a five minute walk to the Wapping train station; both will be fraught with people. On the other hand, he’s not sure he wants Charles to know which hotel he’s staying at. When he thinks about all the people on the train after six on a Sunday night, though, he gives in. Being inside the privacy of a car agrees with him and he can talk to Charles there if need be. Not that he wants to talk to Charles; Raven’s already relayed Charles’ apologies as well as commentary on her brother’s possible motivations.

“Sure.”

There are too many people between them and Charles’ car, but at least there’s now open sky above. It’s a short walk to the car park and Erik manages to pass through the other pedestrians without any interruptions. Charles leads him to an unsubtle Audi A-8 that annoys Erik with its plain black wrapping of excess and its strangely-shaped grill. He dubs it understated conspicuous consumption.

The boot has room for his case and the passenger side seat has room for his legs and is likely the most comfortable seat Erik’s slid into in his life. It’s obviously called a luxury sedan for a reason. The leather is so fine it barely makes a sound when he makes himself comfortable and adjusts the seat. Is it planned or a coincidence that the interior smells like incense? Erik unplugs his headphones from his phone to turn off the player. The incense, he decides, is sufficient.

Charles slips into the seat next to him and slots his key but doesn’t start the engine. Erik watches across his shoulder as Charles grips the wheel with his right hand but drums his fingers on the leather-wrapped surface with the other. He’s definitely agitated.

“Can I talk to you in your room at the hotel?” he finally asks.

“Not without a good reason.”

Charles turns his head toward Erik and makes direct, unyielding eye contact. “I have a better than good reason, I think.”

“I think your boundaries are as bad as Raven’s.” Erik breaks eye contact to look outside over the black dashboard. “Except Raven’s actually careful when she realizes she’s overstepped and you’re not.”

From his right Charles sighs and starts the car; its V8 engine far quieter and smoother than Erik’s truck. Erik closes his eyes, listens to the engine’s low thrum, and breathes in the scent of previously burned sandalwood.

“Where to?”

“Royal Foundation of St. Katharine.” Erik says, “Number 2, Butcher Row.”

The drive is relatively quiet, uneventful, and devoid of conversation. Erik’s weariness is such that he almost nods off several times in the short span it takes for the GPS to lead Charles to the ivy-covered stone building.

“This is a remarkably quiet area for London,” Charles observes.

Erik opens his eyes to the stone building beyond the Audi’s glass. “That’s what I wanted.”

They sit quietly for a few tense moments and then Charles pulls out the crumpled papers and sets them on Erik’s thigh. “You said you’d hear me out.”

“I did,” Erik says. He doesn’t touch the papers in his lap for all the metaphysical weight they exert. He wants to set them on fire or throw them out the window. There are very few things that make Erik feel stupid, but the ink contained within the paper’s folds is steeped in humiliation.

“I’ve apologized by text, voice mail, and email uncountable times,” Charles says quietly, but not without a certain strength behind his words. “But I’d rather say it to your face. I truly, deeply, and with all humility, apologize for what I didn’t say to you that extremely challenging day. I hope you will hear me now.”

Erik presses his head back against the Audi’s leather headrest. His teeth clench and his fingertips dig into the arm rests. He harvests a deep breath of fragrant air, draws a bead on ten, and gets ready to start counting.

“You aren’t now nor ever have been anything but human.”

The car is quiet for ten seconds. Erik counts backward even though his anger hasn’t spiked the way he expected it to. Charles’ words are painful all the same and ache with feelings Erik doesn’t want to revisit. “Congratulations, Charles, I’ve heard you out and you have your closure.”

“There’s one last thing,” Charles replies. From the corner of his eye, Erik sees Charles turn and lean toward him over the car’s wide armrest. “We still have business. You said you’d tattoo me in Raven’s stead.”

A combination of surprise and disbelief flood Erik’s system; Charles had said he was at the show for the art and for ‘what everyone else’ was there for. His head turns in slow motion to bring his face around to Charles’ determined expression. Erik notes the crease between Charles’ brows, a hint of tooth shows as he bites his lower lip, even the heavy indentation of Charles’s elbow as his body weight presses it into the leather armrest.

Erik doesn’t turn away; his hand finds the folded papers on his lap and holds them up without looking at them. “This? You went to the show to get this?”

Charles’ lip slips out from under his tooth. “Yes.”

The surprise renders Erik stock still for an unknown amount of time. He stares at Charles with his brain locked up on this utterly bizarre turn of events.

“Are you zoning out again?” Charles asks. Erik can’t blame him for wondering because he can’t move for the processing power it’s taking to comprehend a Charles that’s willing to be tattooed. Tattooed, in fact, with imagery Erik now wishes he’d burned.

“Have you thought this through?” Erik asks. “Is this desperation?”

“I wish it were so simple.” Charles takes a breath and pulls his elbow off the armrest in favor of twisting around further in his seat. He leans forward on both forearms. “It’s been a month and a half since I’ve seen you and in that time I’ve thought and made changes. For instance, I meet with my therapist every week.”

Erik says nothing; he doesn’t know what words to use that won’t open him up to the pain Charles visited on him before.

“I don’t know how it was for you,” Charles continues, “but she manages to cut through a lot of my baggage. The progress I’ve made in just one hour a week is humbling. Raven said she had a similar experience, but it’s not at all easy to talk to a stranger or to do the sort of reevaluating Dr. Braddock pushes me to do.”

“Did you show this to your therapist?” Erik shakes the folded papers to get Charles’ attention. “Did your therapist tell you how stupid an idea this is? A tattoo is forever, Charles, and even though Raven and I discussed looking for fading ink we never did.”

Charles lifts an arm from the armrest to touch the papers; his expression is painfully earnest, his voice trembles with emotion. “I wanted it the moment I saw it. I would wear it for the world to see, like the heart on your sleeve.”

It’s too much. Erik closes his eyes tight and turns away from Charles’ face. He seeks the fading warmth of the passenger side window. Without thinking about it, his right hand forms a fist around the paper and bounces firmly up and down on the armrest. It jars his wrist; the pain arrests the agitated movement right away. He’s sure Charles understands that if Erik makes the tattoo real, if he seals that design’s ink under Charles’ skin then the heart on Erik’s sleeve will no longer be Erik’s. “Do you understand exactly what you’re asking?”

“Tell me,” Charles says softly.

“No, _you_ tell me.”

“I can only interpret your art through my own experience,” Charles says, “but I think you wanted to give me this.” Erik feels fingertips on his arm, on the inked heart. “The unicorns are in the style of a knight chess piece and I think that’s a reference to the chess team, but also your accusation that I tend to act like a white knight. But my white-knighting has two faces; one good and one bad. The crown around the unicorn’s neck is my class and in one way it’s fine but inverted it’s damaging. My unicorn’s missing horn is in your dragon’s eye, the dragon’s claw marks are on my unicorn; these are how we hurt each other.”

“You think highly of yourself.” It’s misdirection; Charles has interpreted the image far too accurately, but in a moment of clarity within all the insanity, Erik finds himself with the beginnings of an idea how to proceed. “But, if it’s what you want, I can work out of the hotel room. I hope you can sit four or five hours for it.”

Without waiting for a response, Erik opens his eyes. He pushes the car door open and steps into the sun’s last glow. It takes Charles a long moment for him to catch up but when he appears on the other side of the car, Erik slides the folded papers to him across the sleek roof.

“Keep a hold of that until I’m ready for it.”

Charles catches the papers with a breathless sort of expression on his face. His eyes are far too earnest, his eyebrows poised in some difficult expression, his lips are parted. Were things different between them, Erik would be moved to kiss him. But things aren’t different and Erik reminds himself that the impulse that moves within his chest isn’t butterflies, but moths that have spied a flame.

The journey to his second floor room is made swiftly and with no words other than Erik telling Charles to take his tattoo gear case. If it can handle check in travel, the case can endure Charles.

The hotel is quiet, most of the occupants checked out that morning, but Erik hadn’t wanted to rush himself to get to airport or to stash his carry-on at the convention. There’s too much thievery at cons for that. So the hotel is quiet and its lived-in appearance is somehow comforting to Erik in a way that the perfect corners and sharp edges in new buildings aren’t.

The hotel room is small, but it is no more or less than he needs; single bed, bedside chest of drawers, small table, lamp, and chair. The window is a luxury he cares far more about than the television he’s using as a surface to rest his wallet and room key on.

“I’m not putting it on your chest,” Erik says. He pulls his shoes and socks off while Charles waits behind him with the case. “It’s too big for your arm, your flank’s better. It’s a good meaty spot for a tattoo; it won’t hurt as much.”

“Not my chest?” Charles releases the case back into Erik’s care and bends to take his shoes off, too. “Is your wrist going to be able to handle this? If you like, I could get a room and we could do this in the morning.”

“My plane leaves early.” Not early by Erik’s standards but surely by Charles’. “I’ll be fine.”

“I could pay to have your flight rescheduled,” Charles offers.

How Erik ever forgets about Charles’ frankly obscene inheritance is beyond him. It must certainly make life much easier to be able to cut through all the money-made barriers in the world. “Not interested. Have you eaten?”

The next half hour is spent setting up and getting Charles’ body ready for the process. Apart from stuffing Charles with energy bars from Erik’s carry-on and shaving the pale skin Erik’s chosen for the tattoo, the only truly difficult part is taking the papers and finally unfolding them. It’s unbelievale the paper retains the scent of incense from weeks ago, but that’s only a peripheral thought.

Erik stares at the image absently for several long seconds before shaking himself out of the beginnings of another episode. He needs activity to keep himself grounded. He’s never had problems spacing out while designing or making tattoos or executing lettering projects; something about that detail-oriented work transports him to a benign form of absence.

Charles has asked for this knowing full well what it means for him, if not what it means to Erik. Even though Erik has realized that it wasn’t his place to take Raven’s burden to fulfill the bet, he can’t take back that he stepped in. He thinks he’s doing this for the wrong reason, but Erik needs to know it’s the right thing.

“Go ahead and lay on your stomach,” Erik says and pats the bed. “Try to make yourself comfortable with your arms by your sides.”

Charles, stripped down to his boxer briefs since shaving, does just that but doesn’t succeed in looking particularly comfortable. First he tries turning his head awkwardly to one side, then face down on the sheets, then up on his chin. No stranger to this issue, Erik calmly folds one of the bathroom towels and places it under Charles’ neck and chin.

“Thank you,” Charles murmurs.

This is the part that’s harder than the tattoo itself and finding the right words isn’t the problem. Erik usually has fewer problems with actually knowing what to say; it’s the words themselves that are hard to utter. He settles in the chair by the window to face Charles and forces the sounds out. “What you said in the car about me, did you mean that?”

At first Charles turns his head. The angle is just as awkward as before, so he turns over and braces himself on his side with an elbow. Odd how Erik hadn’t noticed how much more defined Charles’ arms have become until now; his stomach is a little loose yet, but that’s never bothered Erik. Charles’ chest is handsome; Erik can see how the unicorn tattoo might have looked there.

“What? About you being human?” Charles pushes up to sit upright to face Erik and give him another complicated expression.

“That and more.”

At Erik’s words, Charles scoots to the corner of the bed so their knees are much closer and lifts his hands, palms up and reaching. Charles’ hands are strong. It takes Erik a moment to realize Charles is seeking Erik’s hands in return. He makes no move to give them over. Charles hands drop to his thighs and rub the bare skin and black material there. He compromises by seeking eye contact instead. That Erik can grant.

“Erik, I’m going to tell you something I’ve told many of my students over the years, something that is true even though it comes out of my hypocrite mouth.” Charles looks down to collect himself and then returns his eyes to Erik’s. “What I say and what I think is less powerful than what you believe. I think I know why you believe you are a monster, but I don’t agree. You are a human being. No monster could have taken care of my sister the way you have. It’s because the good in you outweighs the bad.”

No tears surprise Erik this time, but he feels like Charles is spewing sunlight and that’s an uncomfortable yet uplifting thing. Erik rationalizes and understands that Charles is saying something akin to what Dr. Frost said long ago. The state decided Erik needed to see her, or vice versa, but he was the one that had to decide it was good for him. Charles and Raven don’t think him a monster, but again it’s Erik’s decision.

“I have more to say,” Charles continues after a few seconds, “but you’re tired and stressed so it will wait for another day.”

Erik nods and notes his anger is there, simmering, ready to climb up his chest at a moment’s notice, but that it hasn’t risen to a concerning level. Charles has made the right choice. But Erik wants one thing more from Charles’ lips and makes his gamble. “Why do you want this tattoo? No bullshit.”

Charles finally looks down at his hands which have stayed on his thighs the whole time. When it comes, his voice is hushed. “Please understand, Erik, that this is hard for me.” His fingers press dimples into his thighs and then lay flat. “I want…” He stops a long moment to collect himself once more before he takes a deep breath and tries again. “I want your heart.”

“You want the heart on my sleeve?” Because, yes, in a moment of weakness that’s what Erik’s tattoo design intended to offer.

“I want the heart within your chest,” Charles corrects. His hands come together, flesh seeking the comfort of fellow flesh. His eyes are terribly clear when he brings them up to meet Erik’s. “I want a relationship with you. You’re the first person I’ve continued to want even after both our emotions were on the table; I’d be a fool to let you go without at least trying.”

The feeling of wings intensifies in Erik’s chest and up his throat. He’s not sure if it’s a resurrection of hope or the beginnings of nausea, but nausea is the more welcome of the two.

“The image on the paper is too large for what I’m going to do,” Erik says as if Charles hadn’t just laid himself bare, as if he hadn’t just asked for something critical that Erik had wanted to give a month ago. “I’m going to draw the image on you freehand. Do you have any questions or objections?”

“What?” Charles replies after a moment of obvious disorientation. His gaze falls, then his face; he slowly tips over to lie down on his side. “No, that’s fine, but can you give me a minute?”

Erik hates the tremble in Charles’ voice. “Take your time.”

Charles doesn’t relax entirely, but Erik’s worked with far more tense canvases. Overall, Charles isn’t doing a bad job of relaxing for his first tattoo despite the emotionally compromising conversation and the way Erik brought it to an abrupt end. Raven doesn’t tattoo emotionally compromised clients; Erik doesn’t either if he notices their condition.

“I’ll show you my tools before I use them,” Erik says once Charles turns over and resumes the position Erik had placed him in previous to the emotional conversation. “Everything is sterile as I can make it. I work in gloves and I have a box of them nearby when I need to change them out. The ink cups are new, my machines are always covered, and all the needles are new. Just keep in mind that a hotel room isn’t an ideal place for a tattoo.”

“And a convention full of people is?” Charles asks.

“It’s probably even worse.”

“What colors are you using?”

Erik lowers the pen to Charles’ skin and begins laying out the design. “Black.”

He plugs his headphones back into his phone and pulls the cups up so they rest half over his ears. It’s enough to hear his loop of rain and field recordings and still be able to hear Charles if he has anything to say. The sketch takes about half an hour and uses minimal lines; his wrist doesn’t bother him but he draws the black lines lightly.

“When you’re ready, I’m going to wipe your skin down and get started with the outline.”

“The outline is the one that hurts the most, isn’t it?”

Apparently Charles has done some research on the process after all. “Yes. After a while you may get used to it, but everyone’s different. The good thing is that your flank isn’t as sensitive as your chest and doesn’t have bones to make things more painful.”

Erik does another sterilizing wash over Charles’ skin and wipes the excess away with the first of many paper towels. Afterwards he peels the outline needles from their plastic and loads them in his gun in front of Charles. He sits down and turns on his machine’s power source. Charles closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and lets it out slowly without Erik needing to tell him to do so.

“If you feel faint or it gets to be too much, say something. I can stop at any time.” Erik doubts that’s going to happen, but he has to say it if for no other reason than to put Charles at ease.

“Understood.”

The familiar buzz of the machine fills the air and Erik brings it down to perforate Charles’ skin. Charles gasps and says something the moment the needles bear into his skin, but doesn’t stop Erik or say anything else. It doesn’t take long, even though this is Charles he’s tattooing, before the work and the nature tracks absorb Erik in the steady marking of the needles and the wiping away of blood.

He told Charles it would be around four hours, but he only really intends to do the outline of the piece. Shading would be pointless. The twinging of his wrist, the steadily growing ache of it pushes a ninety minute job into more than two hours. Charles does little more than twitch for the first hour and then he relaxes into stillness. When the work’s finished Erik’s amused to find Charles has fallen asleep. It makes the process of clean up and bandaging far easier.

* * *

 Charles is disoriented when he awakes to a strange room, but he’s no stranger to waking up to unfamiliar beds and hotel rooms so he doesn’t panic. While the room brightens with morning sun, Charles’ need to piss and his desire to go back to sleep war with one another, but he inevitably concedes to his bladder and makes to roll out of bed.

Except there isn’t much real estate to the bed. He tries to save himself but ends up sliding off the surface anyway and landing on his backside with a heavy thump. The concussion is jarring, but not as much as the sudden realization that his skin feels like it’s seen far too many hours of midday sun and that there’s something taped over the lower right side of his back.

Charles remembers the vibration and scratching pain of the tattoo machine’s needles.

His skin burns under the bandage in reaction to Charles’ twist to see his flank. All he can see is the edge of the medical tape and swaths of gauze the tape is keeping down. Charles’ left hand curls under his right arm and around his ribs to pick at the tape, but pauses midway as he remembers the man that put it there.

“Erik?” Even as he turns his head to look around the small hotel room he doubts he’ll have an answer. He can smell sandalwood but Erik’s luggage is gone.

Disappointment rises and falls in Charles’ gut. He pulls himself to his feet to investigate any other evidence of Erik’s presence. The room key is on the room’s small table along with the folded drawing, a bottle of something called Aquaphor, anti-bacterial soap, and a note written on the back of two of Erik’s Quicksilver business cards. The note, written in Erik’s distinctive handwriting, is a list of times and activities for the care of his tattoo: when to take off the bandage (in thirty-five minutes), what to wash it with, how to use the Aquaphor, and the url for Quicksilver’s online aftercare sheet.

Charles drops the cards and picks up his phone. There are messages, of course, but he’s only interested in seeing if there are any from Erik. There’s only one from over an hour ago.

_A bet is a stupid reason for a tattoo._

Charles’ heart constricts; what a thing to say after giving someone their first tattoo! “You twat.”

But he accepts Erik’s censure because, even though he’d been clear Charles’ choice would be difficult for him, Erik had done it anyway. The bet is over; Raven has been given her due. Charles has his tattoo and Raven has her job and even if Charles is only ever going to have Erik’s heart in ink, he can handle that. Erik’s disdain, after all he’d put Erik through, is a small price to pay. But it rankles after Charles had tried so hard to help and had made himself so vulnerable by admitting he wanted Erik. The text seems to make it clear Charles should try to start moving on from Erik. Charles rationalizes that the tattoo will be a reminder of all the lessons he’s been learning over the past few months. If nothing else, at least he won Erik’s inked heart, if not the one of actual flesh and blood.

It will take more than an hour to get back to his flat in Oxford but Charles is too impatient to sit around in the hotel room for thirty minutes to take off the bandage. He pulls his clothes on with care and heads out to find the front desk and turn in Erik’s room key and then fly away home.

The traffic is nightmarish, as is any morning in London, but once he’s on the road back to Oxford it’s tolerable. The morning, lovely for once, isn’t lost on him, for all he’s more concerned about resting his back against the Audi’s leather. The only real issue is the itchiness of the tattoo’s abrasions under his bandage and shirt. The sensation is annoying, but there’s little he can do until he gets home. If not for the phantom of pepper spray he would ask more from the car’s engine.

Charles isn’t in such a hurry that he parks badly, but he nearly bumps headlong into one of his neighbors in his rush for his flat. Inside the dark and clutter of his home he sheds his shoes and shirt en route to the bathroom with the anti-bacterial soap and Aquafor. He dumps both bottles in the bathroom sink and opens his phone’s browser and taps quickly into Quicksilver’s website and their aftercare information.

There are warnings about long showers with hot water or spraying water directly onto the fresh tattoo. Charles props his phone against his toothbrush stand to read while pulling the bandage off his back by feel. The tape and bandage come up easy enough. He takes the white sheet of gauze and looks at the yellowish exudate that stains it in a vaguely mirror image shape. It goes into the trash in a wad.

Heart beating wildly in excitement, Charles opens the medicine cabinet mirror to angle it with the full length mirror on the back of the bathroom door so he can see the full reflection of the image that sits low on his back and high on his flank. What Charles sees is instantly confusing.

Erik said he would use black ink, but what Charles sees isn’t stark black lines on his pale skin but lines of angry pink. The double-headed unicorn is there, oh yes it is, but in dark pink that mostly looks like… like a terrible sunburn. It doesn’t look like ink unless, perhaps, Erik used white.

And that’s when Charles remembers that at no point did Erik show him the little ink cup filled with ink. In fact, he never showed Charles a bottle of ink at all. In the aftershock of that realization, Charles recalls the message Erik sent him that morning and understands; Erik gave him the experience of a tattoo but used no ink.

* * *

 Miraculously, Erik sleeps all the way to Vancouver. He doesn’t turn his phone on until he’s off the plane, downed a bottle of airport-priced water, washed his hands and face, and bought a bottle of orange juice. His head aches and the roof of his mouth feels slightly distended; both are signs he’s probably combating a cold or sinus infection despite all the antibacterial and sterilization aspects of his work. It’s a danger typical of any kind of convention, let alone one filled with backspray from tattooing. Raven calls it ‘con ick’ and says Hank often gets it from comic book conventions. Erik only gets sick when he doesn’t sleep properly at the very few cons he attends.

In the seats outside his next plane’s gate, Erik turns on his phone. He’s been to Vancouver International enough that his phone automatically picks up the wifi and pipes messages, email, and a few other social media notifications through. He has messages from Raven about picking him up at PDX and one from Charles he nearly passes over without reading.

Erik doesn’t expect Charles to understand what happened or why, but curiosity gets the better of him. He taps the message open.

_I do want the tattoo, but I’m glad it wasn’t the wages of the stupidbet I made with Raven. _

This asshole, Erik thinks. He slides down the chair into a sprawling slouch and starts typing a reply. _If you really want a tattoo you should make an appointment instead of ambushing people at conventions. Did anyone expect you to give a spontaneous lecture at your Portland convention?_

It’s a little wordy, but Erik sends it anyway and shoves the phone into his hoodie’s pocket. A few moments later he drags his phone out again when a reply buzzes into his hipbone. It would be better if he turned off his phone, Erik thinks, but he checks the message anyway.

_I admit I didn’t think of it the same way. Shall I make an appointment then?_

The impulse to reply is checked; Erik turns his phone off and shoves it down deep into the front pocket of his jeans. He’s heard Charles will be in Portland again in October to wage litigation against the officers that pepper-sprayed him. In that time Erik knows he needs to think about what he wants for the future and if, maybe, he can revisit the past. It’s a horrible gamble and all Erik can think of is the age-old proverb: Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.


	17. Come to me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue to follow by the weekend, barring technical difficulties.

 

Charles doesn’t leave anything to chance this time, except his position in the heavily competitive university by taking a semester off. Other than his research, he regrets having to interrupt the often excruciating, but enlightening, hour-long sessions with his recommended therapist, Dr. Braddock. He rents a car, books a hotel in downtown Portland, opens an account at the local library, and finally meets with his lawyers.

He has no trouble paying attention to the legal team, but he’s sure they can tell that beyond his money he really isn’t an ideal client. The truth is, Charles doesn’t want to bother with a lawsuit, for all he firmly believes one of the two officers deserves it. They and the lawsuit are just a means to an end, and that end is Erik.

However, it turns out Erik is also a means to an end; that of the lawsuit.

Surrendering to Raven’s guidance, Charles bides his time and doesn’t come calling for three intermittently rainy days after things break down with his would-be lawsuit. She’s told Erik that Charles has dropped the lawsuit, but not why. They’re trying to tread carefully in case Erik isn’t up to taking the reasoning without an outburst. According to Raven, Erik thinks Charles should have gone through with it since he actually has the money and influence to make it stick.

It’s a slow Tuesday afternoon at Quicksilver when Charles pulls up in his rental BMW 5 series and trots inside the building. The last time Charles was here weighs heavily on his mind. The feeling is reinforced as he climbs the stairs: the stairs and handrail are the same, but Quicksilver’s door is different. Like the previous, it’s old with a leaded glass window, but the previous door’s glass was oval. This one has rectangular glass and lacks the hand-painted shop name. Charles supposes a new door was cheaper than fixing the glass.

Inside there is no new vase for umbrellas, but a proper umbrella stand and a wall-mounted rack for coats. The scent of wet bricks and a mélange of old incense infiltrates his senses right after he enters; nostalgia rolls over him. Even if some parts of Quicksilver look new, it remains the same at least to his sense of smell.

The red velvet couch looks no worse for having been thrown through the opening in the wall. The walls are white and look unblemished, but Raven’s art has been replaced by an arrangement of colorful paintings that seem to be a commentary on a mixture of female body types. He’s not sure what to make of them.

On the other side of the pass through Erik and Raven are sitting at the desk with a laptop open. The marks on Charles’ flank have healed, but psychologically he feels their burn anew.

The moment Charles clears the hall and steps into the gallery space Erik’s gaze flicks up from the screen. It just as quickly drops back down from whence it came. Raven, however, pushes her stool back and comes swinging under the noren and across the gallery to fling herself at him.

He catches her weight gratefully; this too is a familiar thing. He holds her close, memorizes the smell of her vermillion hair, the interplay of the shiny strands with the blue ink suspended under her skin, and reminds himself to not smother her with his good intentions. Dr. Braddock said it wouldn’t be easy to let go, but the key will be to let Raven set her boundaries. They’ve compiled a list of topics to avoid and are slowly getting used to respecting each other when told to back off. It hasn’t been easy for either of them.

Raven has accepted that their bet has been fulfilled. Charles has promised to say nothing about her tattoos unless it is praise. They’ve both agreed that matters of art and taste are minefields that they must traverse carefully and with a mind for mutual respect.

“I’ve missed you so,” he says into the gloss of her hair and kisses the crown of her head.

Her arms squeeze him tighter. “I missed you, too. I wish you were closer than a text away.”

He pulls his nose from her hair and looks over her shoulder at Erik. “What are you two working on?”

“Erik’s been teaching me the bookkeeping,” Raven says with the distinct air of the disgruntled. “I hate it. Fortunately I have to break off for a couple hours to go car shopping with Az.”

Charles steps back from Raven, but his hands hold her biceps firmly. “ _Who?_ Why is _he_ around here?”

Raven frowns down at the hands on her arms and then knocks them away. “This is his last trip this side of the world for the foreseeable future. He negotiated a move to running security for a shipping line on the Atlantic side of the Northern sea route.”

“Ah,” Charles nods, a smile leaching pain from the well-deserved sting of Raven’s rebuff. Their relationship is a work in progress. “Hmm, I suppose that means Mr. Quested is back off the market.”

“You don’t even sound disappointed!” Raven walks to the red couch where her purse is sitting in a customary wide-open sprawl. She slings it over her shoulder and comes back to him. “What happened to my hornball big brother?”

Charles glances significantly at Erik. He’s still looking at the laptop’s screen, but Charles notes that his blue-green eyes aren’t moving. “I think you know.”

This time it’s Raven’s hand on Charles’ bicep; but it isn’t a touch rooted in misguided control. Her dark eyes are big and her expression serious. She doesn’t speak a word, but the support is there in her earnest expression and the gentle squeeze of her hand. They hold the moment for a short eternity, eyes locked, and then she nods slowly, just once. It’s enough.

He places his hand over her tattooed fingers and squeezes back. “Have fun with Azazel. Buy something I would never approve of.”

A fresh, surprised smile breaks out across her face, she laughs in what can only be delight. “I’ll keep that in mind!”

They release each other and Raven turns for the exit. Her stride is buoyant as she heads out of the gallery space and down the hall to the front door. Charles watches her through the leaded glass until her red hair disappears from the frame. It feels horrible to let her run off with somebody like Azazel, but the way she smiled, the laugh she gave, those things are what he clings to. Dr. Braddock said it would always be uncomfortable, but that it would get easier to break bad habits with experience.

“Something you wouldn’t approve of, huh?”

Charles turns back around and finds Erik leaning against the doorway to the work space, the noren frames his head and the top of his shoulders in navy. It isn’t warm in Portland in October, but Erik is wearing a short-sleeved shirt. Half the heart is visible amongst the other tattoos on his arm, though the neck is not so low cut to reveal the dragon heads on his chest. Charles’ heart rate picks up a bit at the sleeves; in his experience Erik often covers his tattoos but the last time he’d seen him that hadn’t been the case.

“It seemed appropriate.” He wants to close the distance between them, but Charles remains in the middle of the gallery space. “Your Dr. Frost recommended me an excellent associate of hers. She’s been playing a critical role in helping me, but you probably know all about that. Thank you for giving me that number.”

Erik nods and his lower lip looks odd for a moment; Charles guesses that Erik’s bitten at the inside of his lip. “You’re welcome.”

Charles composes a slight smile and remains as he is in the middle of the room. Silence is usually a trick Erik relies on, but this time Charles needs Erik to make the next move and set the tone for this visit. He needs the control to be in Erik’s hands to some extent or he’ll go awry.

It’s quiet in the shop for nearly a minute. Charles begins to get distinctly uncomfortable with the growing mass of silence. Erik looks comfortable, maybe content, to wait Charles out; he feels himself heating up in his suit.

It’s a surprise when the next move is Erik’s after all; he pushes off the doorway and walks toward Charles and past him to settle onto the couch. Charles hesitates but joins Erik on the reclaimed and maligned piece of furniture.

The distance between their bodies is an indistinct science. Time passes slowly as they sit; through the windows Charles watches low-hanging clouds drift across the sky. It’s strange weather that can’t decide if it should be sunny or cloudy or some peaceful combination of the two. Light comes and goes, illuminating the room with waxing and waning light and shadow.

“Raven says you dropped the lawsuit.”

If Charles believed in a deity in the firmament he would thank them that Erik has made the first move and that the move is, indeed, the one he had hoped for. He continues to watch the window though he’d much rather watch Erik’s face. In his peripheral vision, he tries to track Erik’s body language.

“I didn’t want to,” Charles says, “but I didn’t think things through. If I had thought with my head instead of my outrage I wouldn’t have set the ball rolling at all.”

Beside him Erik shifts on the couch to throw one leg over the other. His feet are bare and though Charles has no foot fetish to speak of, he finds them oddly handsome. “What changed your mind? Raven didn’t want to tell me, so I assume it had something to do with me.”

“Yes,” Charles says. He wonders if his voice is quiet enough to keep the room’s calm. “I was advised you and your past would be drawn into the suit. Perhaps you think I wouldn’t want to do that because I couldn’t trust your temper, but,” Charles turns to Erik, “I’ve caused you enough pain, I think. I didn’t want to drag you back to that time in your life.”

Erik uncrosses his legs and sets both feet on the floor; his torso makes a gradual descent to rest its weight on his knees via his elbows. Charles watches the back of Erik’s head and then his hands; his long artistic hands come together to clasp one another. Another quiet space descends. In the background Charles notices a quiet piano concerto, maybe Shostakovich, maybe something else. Perhaps pianos are common ground.

“I’m going to show you something,” Erik says into the quiet. At odds with the calm, he rocks up to his feet and unfastens his jeans and shoves them down his legs. The denim crumples and stops halfway down his shins.

Charles’ heart pounds, not with arousal but with equally terrible fear and hope. Erik sits back down and folds up the left leg of his boxer briefs; in so doing he exposes more of the long, black stripe. “Look here.” Erik taps a finger against the top, middle of his thigh. “It’s covered, but between pushing the needle in too far and not healing properly it scarred.”

With the aid of the growing light in the room, Charles makes out the shape in the reflection of light on raised skin. It looks like a Star of David.

“I was sixteen. I used my mother’s sewing needles and India ink.”

Without thinking, Charles touches the old scar. “This is your first?”

“It is.”

Charles looks up; Erik’s face is close to his, the creases at his forehead are deep and his breaths come in the steady regularity that speaks of breathing exercises. He longs to kiss Erik’s hollow cheek or his temple, or to at least take his hand, but he gives Erik the space he thinks Erik needs and waits for the right moment.

“The first time my mother saw it,” Erik murmurs, “I told her it was ink. It wasn’t a lie, but it was misleading because she told me to wash it off. My second tattoo was on my girlfriend and her family was angry when they found out. I’d never seen my mother that upset or disappointed before; she was so angry she cried. She barely said a word to me for two days.”

Erik pauses, eyes shut, and inhales through his nose and exhales through parted lips. His hands grip the front edge of the velvet cushion between his knees until his knuckles are white and the velvet crushed under his fingers. The air is heavy with the promise of a storm.

Charles watches, his eyes wide and dry from a lack of blinking. This is Erik at his most raw and vulnerable. Even though Charles wants this trust and intimacy, there’s a habitual element within him that wants to run far and fast from the burden Erik is sharing with him. His heart races in fear.

Even so, Charles sets his palm on Erik’s leg. “Go on.”

Erik nods, but his face is turned down, his eyes directed toward his hands where they grip the upholstery. “Laser removal was even more expensive back then, but my mother covered it for Magda. She borrowed money from an aunt for me. But the afternoon we went to my appointment we were broadsided by a Mercedes.”

Charles’ face contorts at the same time as his heart. Under his hand Erik’s thigh goes rigid with tension.

Shaded by the deep set of his brows, Erik’s eyes are dark and conflicted. His nostrils flare and his upper lip curls back from his teeth. His face is drawn with lines of rage and agony. Charles grips Erik’s tense thigh and squeezes hard; he doubts Erik would feel any softer a touch. “But Erik—

“Don’t say it,” Erik hisses through clenched teeth. “I hate hearing it.”

Charles doesn’t say that it isn’t Erik’s fault; he says, “Okay, I won’t. Would you like me to breathe with you instead?”

As he hoped it would, the statement infiltrates Erik’s anger by spreading confusion. There’s a miniscule hardening in his leg’s tension, but then it loosens. Erik’s brow remains furrowed, but he has enough control to turn to Charles.

Charles turns to Erik in mirror image. He picks his hand up from Erik’s thigh and leans toward him to place both hands over Erik’s.

Charles ignores the claxons all his survival instincts reverberate throughout his head and leans closer to Erik until he can feel the strong puffs of Erik’s breath against his cheek. He closes his eyes and hopes that what he’s about to do is, at worst, so ridiculous Erik will laugh at him rather than punch him. He feels for the rhythm of Erik’s breath, pauses, and lifts his lips to the hot air of Erik’s exhalation.

When Charles trains, whether it be running, sparring, or pummeling a speed bag, he breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth. Sitting next to Erik, he reverses the flow, breathes in a hot breath through his mouth and releases oxygen and recycled carbon dioxide through his nose. He waits for a sign from Erik to indicate the idiocy of his idea, but four or five breaths pass, and then seven or eight, and finally ten before Erik’s hands move.

Erik turns his palms up and returns the grasp. “Charles,” Erik breathes into Charles’ mouth, “what are you doing? I murdered a man. I strangled him with my bare hands and I don’t even regret it.”

Charles breathes Erik’s words in and breathes his own out. “I don’t think either of us will ever be at peace, Erik, but we don’t have to isolate ourselves; we don’t have to be alone.”

The grip on Charles’ hands strengthens as if Erik will squeeze sense into his very flesh. “Did you hear me? I don’t regret it. I’d do it again if I could.”

Charles opens his eyes to the blue green of Erik’s and the humidity of Erik’s breath on his lips. There are premature wrinkles etched into the corners of his eyes and scored deeply across his forehead. It’s hard to believe this is a man of a mere thirty-four years.

“I heard and understood,” Charles replies. “Did you listen to me? One act doesn’t define you. Yes, you killed a man, but I believe you are no monster. Murder certainly is a monstrous act, I see your logic, but you are human, Erik. One act a monster does not make.”

Erik’s grip tightens again to a painful degree and then he jerks his face away and down. He releases Charles’ hands, but Charles doesn’t let go. “You don’t understand.”

“No,” Charles says and tugs Erik’s hands up to his chest in a bid to pull Erik back to him. “I understand, but I don’t agree. You saw me at my worst and you accepted me. Erik, let me do the same.”

“You never saw me at my worst,” Erik replies, but follows Charles’ unsaid instruction to turn back. For a moment the self-loathing on Erik’s face makes Charles question himself, but he holds on. “You never saw me in the twisted metal of the crash or on the courthouse steps. You never heard what my family said. You never even saw me when I destroyed Quicksilver.”

Erik’s hands are fists and they’re hard against Charles’ chest. “You think I don’t know? Let me do the same, Erik. Look at what you’ve done for Raven. Look what you did for _me_. Killing that man didn’t bring you peace, but accepting the good you do will make your life livable once more.”

The way Erik’s expression changes is as frightening as the change at Charles’ chest where Erik’s hands open into rigid claws. Charles feels the acute drag of Erik’s fingers inside his blazer as they turn against his button up. He sees the deep crags of Erik’s brow soften not one whit, but instead shift up above the slow widening of his eyes. Clinically, he knows an anger response drags the brows down to protect the eyes before violence, but this opening of eyes… Good God, it’s not anger, but a deep conflict that Charles thinks could be grief.

At his chest, Erik’s hands complete their turn and then close around handfuls of Charles’ shirt. The transformation, the tectonic shift from anger to grief or whatever deep emotion this is, descends into the privacy of Charles’ shoulder. In an awkward alignment of bodies, Erik presses his face hard into Charles’ trapezius. His breath is hot on Charles’ clavicle.

Charles sucks in his lips and bites them. This degree of emotion has always made him uncomfortable to witness, let alone experience. He takes his hands from between their bodies and ranges them around either side of Erik’s body to hold him like he would Raven, but while he might have set his chin on Raven’s head, he presses his cheek against the back of Erik’s.

Charles holds Erik close and watches heavy-bottomed clouds dance with sunbeams outside. Even in this strange emotional place Erik says nothing. Charles doesn’t really know what he’s sorting through or what demons he has to negotiate with. He’s somewhat surprised that his shirt and neck remain dry though Erik’s breathing remains warm and humid above his chest. He supposes Erik should take all the time he wants to figure out something of this magnitude. Accordingly, Charles does his best to say nothing to interrupt as he waits with the distant piano and the fade and glow from the windows.

By the time the waiting begins to feel uncomfortable and Charles wishes his watch wasn’t hidden under his cuff, Erik takes a heavy breath. Using Charles’ chest as leverage, he pushes upright. His hair is mussed in the front and a few faint impressions from Charles’ collar are pressed into his cheek. A world of weariness exists on his face and the perimeter of his eyes is limned in careworn lines.

“I’m tired,” Erik says.

“Understatement if ever I’ve heard one,” Charles replies. “Would you like to lay down in the backroom? I’ll answer the phone or do whatever it is you need.”

Erik shakes his head. “No, I converted the backroom into a private workspace for clients that want more privacy or want tattoos that involve nudity. Should’ve done it from the start.”

“But, where do you meditate?” The backroom had always seemed like the most intimate place in Erik’s habitat; even more than his home.

“The bathroom.” Erik sighs and stands; he stoops to pull his pants back up. “Raven and I can work on the books tomorrow.”

“Do you..?” Charles stands up with him. “Are you going to close?”

“Don’t have anything scheduled.” Erik shrugs and raises his arms over his head in a stretch that results in several popping sounds. Charles’ mouth runs a bit dry at the vision of skin between shirt and pants hems. “I can design here or at my place.”

“Would you like company?” Charles reaches toward Erik with one hand only to hesitate and drop it once more.

Erik’s gaze follows the movement of Charles’ hand. Charles focuses on Erik, waiting for his next move; he sees that funny movement below his lip again and then Erik reaches out. He tangles his long fingers with Charles’ shorter, less elegant flanges and squeezes them together in a gentle half-closing of his hand.

“Do you want to come with me?” Erik asks.

Thus encouraged, Charles brings Erik’s scarred knuckles to his lips. “Yes. I’ll even guard your sleep.”

* * *

 The street lights are on when Erik wakes up. His head hurts but he expected that; there’s too much going on emotionally and it’s difficult to sort out. He rolls from his side onto his back and studies the ductwork above him and the way the galvanized texture reflects fractals of orange light from the street.

There’s another light source from the hall glowing on the window and door frames that tells him Charles must have stayed.

Erik continues to stare at the patterns above but doesn’t focus on them as he tries to think and sort through the aftermath of their earlier conversation. It’s hard to believe that Charles got him to revisit something that not even Dr. Frost could. And without a meltdown.

Erik inhales a deep breath through his nose and holds it for a few seconds. Slowly, he exhales. Magda. He hasn’t said her name in so long. He wonders about her sometimes, less about his father, even less about his aunt Ruth who tried to sit Shiva for him.

Jakob had called him a few times after Erik was sentenced but that ended badly when one of the imprisoned gang members had tried to restrict his phone access; Erik had beat the other boy in the face with the phone. His father must have heard the whole thing, including the guards tackling him and beating him bloody to match. Jakob had visited a few times after that, but Erik supposes his descent into survival mode and his battered appearance put an end to that. Magda kept coming; it had always been easier to talk to her and she had been no stranger to skirmishes in their neighborhood. Even her visits ceased six months after he was imprisoned.

She called him a few times but the calls ceased and were replaced by sporadic letters and postcards. He can still recite some of those letters; when he ran out of magazines and street novels in solitary, he reread her letters. Eventually, though, like anything else at Rikers, he lost them. One he ate in a fit of delusion, the others were stolen while he was weak and sick with hepatitis. He received one more letter a couple years later; she had gotten married and had two kids.

Erik blinks rapidly and sits up. His eyes are dry again and he’s not sure how long he’s spaced out, but he’s determined to think and remember. So he remembers his mother and reflexively rubs the mostly invisible Star on his leg. Anymore he can remember only how she looked in the hospital; how her face was so unnatural, the smell of chemicals, the sound of the breathing apparatus. That and how disappointed and aged her face had become after she discovered his tattooing.

Erik knows his mother was a good woman; that she and his father had worked hard, that they had high expectations of him, and that they had loved him. In return he had worked hard in school, in community outreach, and housework. His faithful industriousness is probably what made his failures so hard for all of them to accept.

Frost told him his guilt was a result of bargaining; that he worked so hard then and now to make his mother happy as consolation for the art form he’d chosen. Bargains, she had said, were between two or more people and his had always been one-sided.

Erik sighs and runs his fingers through his short hair. He still can’t think about the car accident or examine anything beyond his mother’s anger, frustration, and disappointment with the tattooing. So many of his Jewish friends in their difficult neighborhood didn’t care about tattoos or whether there was cheese on their hamburgers. Erik has never understood half measures.

It’s been nearly twenty years and he misses her just as deeply, yet he would hate for her to know the man he is today. The act that disappointed her most, that led to her death, has become the trade that provides a roof over his head, a bed under his body, and food in his stomach.

A bolt of fury flashes through Erik at the injustice of it all. His right fist slams down onto the mattress and he immediately grits his teeth at the shock of pain that travels up his ulna in response. If he keeps hitting things he may end his career all by himself.

“Erik?”

He rubs his hand down his forearm and back up to his wrist again and raises his voice, “It’s nothing.”

All his thoughts are chaotic; there are too many things he never thinks about that clamor for address when he condescends to do so. Even so, with Charles’ unlikely support and surprising insights, Erik thinks that maybe there’s a sliver of hope to be had. If somebody as different from him as Charles can overcome his fucked up childhood to ask Erik for intimacy, then perhaps Erik can make progress, too.

It’s just harder to accept when Charles’ parents were absent and abusive and Erik’s were perfect. He’s not sure he can be initmate with anyone when the closest he ever came was back when he was sixteen going on seventeen. Charles doesn’t have nearly as much in common with Erik as Erik had had with Madga; she’s Sinti and Charles is more Saltine. His mother had been fond of Magda. Charles? Erik doesn’t even know how his mother would react to his interest in men; she never knew.

Erik stands up and, after a moment’s thought, leaves his shirt on the bed; it isn’t like his mother is there to see his skin. It feels strange to think about her and not have a shirt on, but maybe he can train himself otherwise.

He finds Charles standing in the hall looking pensive. His suit jacket is off, his tie gone and collar unbuttoned, his cuffs are rolled above his elbows. In his hands he has one of Erik’s heavy art history books; the fingers of one hand drum quietly against the cover. “I heard a percussive sound.”

Erik opts for honesty. “I was thinking about some things I used to fight my therapist on, but now I’m not so there’s no need to worry.”

Charles trades pensive out for furrowed-brow concern. “Are you alright, though?”

Erik blows a small snort of amusement. “I’m trying to be.”

A responding smile curves the cupid’s bow of Charles’ mouth. “I think I know that sentiment.”

The answer must assuage Charles’ concern, because his eyes immediately drop to Erik’s chest and then over to his bicep. Beyond Charles’ obsession with Raven’s journeyman tattoo, Erik thinks he has an intense interest in his body; Charles spends plenty of time looking him over. “Did you say you’d guard my sleep or watch my body?”

Charles looks up, smile unwavering. “I said I’d guard you while you sleep, but now that you’re no longer asleep the criteria isn’t met.”

Definitely an interest in his body. “What time is it, anyway?”

Charles turns his wrist to scan his watch’s expensive crystal face. “Just shy of a quarter past ten. I think you needed the rest.”

In all likelihood Erik thinks he could use a bit more. It’s an odd hour to wake up at; he contemplates making dinner since nothing is open and food trucks are out of the question this early in the week. He’s not really hungry, though.

“What are these, by the way?” Charles asks. He uses the heavy book to gesture to the sheets of metal on the walls. “Are they finished work?”

Erik forgets about food as he turns to the hall’s tiny gallery of ink on metal sheets. “They’re mine. I’ve been wanting to try my hand at repoussé and chasing but it’s too loud for the loft. I need somewhere like Raven’s place or somewhere in the countryside. I always thought it would be a good way to vent.”

At his shoulder Charles scoffs lightly, “I don’t think I understood what you just said. Was that French? Roposay?”

“Repoussé,” Erik repeats. “Like the Statue of Liberty or Greek armor. Repoussé pushes metal out and chasing pushes metal in.”

“Ah,” Charles replies. “I thought these looked faintly like topographical maps. So you need somewhere you can be loud. You know, Janos is already out in New York and Raven is moving in with Hank, of course; I’m sure Sean wouldn’t mind if you used the safe in the loft. Sean could probably even use a roommate if you can handle his refrigerator habits.”

It’s surprising to Erik that Raven hasn’t told Charles everything. Sometimes Raven doesn’t tell _Erik_ everything so he reasons he shouldn’t be surprised by Charles’ misunderstanding of their various changing living arrangements. Or, more likely, she’s been waiting for the reality to take root before she tells him. “Sean’s a good kid, but I wouldn’t want to live with him. He probably feels the same.”

“Well,” Charles draws the word out several beats and leans against Erik’s shoulder. “I suppose I can understand; you have something of an abrasive character.”

Erik turns his head to look at Charles’ face which is not so far away from his own. “Do I?”

Charles nods, his smile curling at each corner of his mouth. “Oh yes, very abrasive. My ass remembers how very abrasive you can be.”

Charles pushes the history book into Erik’s stomach and Erik takes it out of reflex. It’s a feint. Charles places his hands on Erik’s hips and turns him so they face one another. Then his hands run up Erik’s arms to his shoulders and Erik allows Charles to pull him down.

“Abrasiveness has its charm,” he whispers against Erik’s lips before he closes the gap.

Erik drops the book to the floor and leans into the kiss so he can move his hands down to the fine curve of Charles’ ass.

Erik doesn’t have a plan. Not really. Sometimes in art there are happy moments when something falls together without him consciously thinking about it. Such as showering with Charles for thirty minutes because, as emotionally confused as he is, Erik’s attraction and desire for Charles have been undergoing a renaissance. The shower is a little strange; Charles insists on washing Erik’s body and his hair. He runs his hands over his tattoos. Charles goes so far in washing Erik that he even soaps up his balls and the crevice of his ass. It feels strange because while Charles is treating the shower as foreplay, it’s also a clear indication of care.

Since his incarceration, Erik has never doted on any of his lovers nor allowed his lovers to treat him as anything other than a sex partner. The last time somebody touched him in a shower was when he traded a blow job for a motor for his prison-rigged tattoo machine. This bears no resemblance to that time and he thinks he’d like to suck Charles’ cock here and now just to put that dark place further into the past. But the moment he starts to slip down to fulfill his desire Charles stops him with one broad hand under Erik’s armpit. “Not tonight. Trust me for tonight.”

Confused but interested nonetheless, Erik acquiesces; perhaps Charles intends to treat him before giving him the hard sex Erik craves. The idea of slamming himself repeatedly onto Charles’ cock is an intoxicating one. His dick is already more than half hard and the phantom pleasure from his imagination sends a tantalizing rush of sensation through his core.

Charles towels Erik dry; the act feels good physically and yet it is also emotionally uncomfortable. It’s hard for Erik to understand why it bothers him so much. Perhaps because it’s been almost twenty years since he’s allowed somebody to treat him gently.

Together they assemble the basin of warm water, lube, condoms, and towels and take them to Erik’s bed. Despite the preparations the moment retains a feeling of spontaneity; preparing for sex is never a bad thing. But before Erik can allow himself to join Charles on the bed, Erik pushes him over to check his flank for scarring.

Charles’ skin glows orange in contoured stripes of light and shadows from the room’s blinds. Working amongst the shadow play, Erik leans over Charles and traces the fading lines of his handiwork with a fingertip. Charles shivers.

He has some light scarring. Over the years most, not all, of the scars will fade; at least none of the marks are raised enough to feel. After several weeks of healing, only Erik or Charles can say for certain what image was nearly captured there on his lower back; many of the lines are already gone. It’s a relief; Erik had no longer wanted Charles to have the image and had purposely placed it where Charles wouldn’t easily see it. Originally he’d envisioned arranging it over Charles’ side with the stately unicorn’s horn pointing at Charles’ heart; bold and unavoidable.

Charles rises up on his elbows and looks over his bare shoulder. “How is it?”

“Most of it will fade,” Erik replies and passes his hand over the area as if to wipe the lines away, “but some of the scars will be there a long time. I was careful as I could be under the circumstances.”

Charles turns over on his back and reaches down to drag Erik onto the bed. Clad only in the shadows curving around his body, Charles is a pleasure to look on. Even if Charles had never renewed his boxing training, Erik knows he would be attracted, but in the end it isn’t Charles’ body or face he’s attracted to.

Moving on all fours, Erik climbs up the bed and over Charles’ body until his face hovers over Charles’ and their breath mingles. “What made you think of breathing with me like that today?”

An embarrassingly loud snort of laughter escapes Charles. He pushes Erik back and sits up, a boyish smile on his face but sincerity in his eyes. Erik is mesmerized by that expression just as much as he is the shapes moving across Charles’ pale skin, lighting him in bars of golden light.

“I don’t know,” Charles says. “I was afraid you’d think I was foolish, but I just wanted to somehow alleviate your pain and anger. I wanted to be with you, help you… show you that I accept you as you are.”

Erik sits back, his lust begins to flag as the previous discomfort bubbles up his chest. It’s warm, weirdly promising, and perhaps he knows what it is, but doesn’t want to name it. The bed shifts; Charles is moving toward him again.

“I know I promised you rough sex,” Charles says, perhaps sensing Erik’s reluctance, “but I want to try something I haven’t done before. Maybe something you haven’t, either.”

“From everything you and Raven have said,” Erik replies, “there isn’t much you haven’t tried.”

Charles laughs again, but at a lower volume. He crawls between Erik’s up-pointed knees, drapes his arms around Erik’s neck, and kneels back on his haunches. “We don’t have to do anything, we can just go to sleep, but I thought I could show you how I feel about you.”

“Through interpretive sex?”

It’s likely Erik’s dry delivery that rips another loud peal of laughter from Charles. “Why is it you only have a sense of humor when I’m in your bed?”

Erik feels the weight of Charles’ arms on his shoulders when he shrugs. “It doesn’t say much for your seduction methods, does it?”

Charles bows his head until the top of his forehead presses against Erik’s. When he speaks his voice is soft with feeling. “I think it’s a deflection. I’m making you feel something and that emotion makes you feel vulnerable. I make you feel vulnerable when I say my life is better for having you in it.”

The feeling from before rises up in force; he wants to call it nausea but it’s probably something much worse.

“Or when I say things –true things— like Raven’s life is better because of you or that you’ve made huge, positive impacts on many lives with your needles and ink. Many of those impacts you may never know about. Many of your tattoos have little meaning to you, but sometimes they have great personal meaning to your clients.”

It isn’t hope; anything but that. It’s a feeling that reminds him of the knee-jerk disgust of sinking into warm mud before realizing it actually feels extraordinarily good. Erik closes his eyes to banish Charles’ face. “If you’re going to make me feel this, you better take responsibility for it.”

The gentle pressure of Charles’ lips is a blessing on one eyelid and then the other. Nobody’s kissed him like this before; Charles is claiming territory Erik didn’t even know he had.

“It’s alright,” Charles whispers. “It’s new for me, too; we don’t have to name it. But do let me know if you want me to explain via interpretive sex.”

Erik snorts softly with laughter and feels a bit of the tension abate. He shakes his head and opens his eyes to Charles’ smile, his wide-pupiled eyes, his warmth, and the offer of something Erik doesn’t think he can bear. He presses his forehead back to Charles’. “I’ll trust you this one time.”

“Thank you, Erik,” Charles says, his words serious once more. “I’ll take responsibility.”

When Charles pushes Erik onto his back, Erik only gives token resistance. The uncomfortable feeling doesn’t fade; his chest is clogged with butterflies and stinging things. Logic dictates things with a stinger should win, but it’s as yet uncertain.

Luminous lines flow over Charles’ upper body and face as he lowers himself between Erik’s knees and lays his heart over the struggle at Erik’s breast. Erik lifts his head to meet Charles’ lips and responds with fervor.

Charles’ mouth has no particular taste, but his tongue is slick against Erik’s in a swirl that is all firm grace while Erik wants nothing but forceful, messy passion. Force of habit leads Erik to try for the fast, hard sex that keeps him focused on the act rather than the person, but Charles denies him that comforting distance. For every show of tooth or hard buck from Erik’s hips, Charles returns with slow rutting and sucking kisses.

It takes a bitten lip before Charles sighs and lifts up on his forearms. Their torsos part, but Charles’ warm cock remains side by side with Erik’s. “Erik, please relax. If it gets to be too much or I do something you don’t like, tell me right away.”

Too out of breath to answer properly, Erik nods and drops his arms from Charles’ hips to the sheets. He spreads his fingers and catches hold of fistfuls of cotton. Perhaps he’s lived with the stinging things for so long, that no matter how beautiful the butterflies, he can’t accept them.

Charles descends once more to place an open-mouthed kiss on Erik’s sternum, stirring the fight on the other side. He slides down to Erik’s feet to run his hands up Erik’s shins and follow those caresses with soft pecks. At the bottom end of the black tattoo, Charles graduates to sucking kisses. He’s careful, worshipful, and slow. Neither the butterflies nor stinging things prevail; they begin to burn as Charles’ humid breaths disperse across Erik’s thigh.

His cock is heavy with blood from their rutting and rigid enough to lift above the black tattoo by the time Charles reaches his hip bone. Charles pauses to look up at Erik with dark eyes and then lowers his lips to one side of the tattoo. He sucks a dark mark next to it.

Erik lifts his hips in an attempt to relocate Charles’ mouth to his increasingly wanting cock. Charles smiles at the motion and seems to choose mercy; he grants the whole of the glans a warm, wet suck. But only for a gasp-inducing moment before he releases the warm head, now slick with saliva, to the chill of the room and returns to the black path of ink. Frustrated with the teasing Erik beats the back of his head against the mattress. He lowers his hips, neglected dick harder and more sensitive than ever, but it’s for the best; he doesn’t want Charles to suck him off without a condom.

Fortunately, Erik’s focus on his cock’s frustration is obliterated the moment Charles’ tongue gives a heavy swipe up and over Erik’s tattooed nipple. Pleasure radiates through him; he sucks a hard breath between his teeth. Charles has a surprisingly acute understanding of what Erik likes. He goes slow, but with enough weight that the nub of Erik’s nipple folds back under the pressure of Charles’ tongue. The flat nipple draws up tight and the peak turns hard quickly under Charles’ ministrations.

Erik closes his eyes against the friction; his hands twist the sheets until they’re wrapped tight over his hands and wrists. All the tension and the way he keeps himself restrained only add to his sensitivity. The gentle pressure of teeth on the black skin frees a low moan from Erik’s mouth.

“At the risk of offending you with cliché language,” Charles murmurs against Erik’s chest, “you are beautiful.”

Erik strains with the sheets, but they’re pulled taut now; anymore twisting around and he’ll be trapped. He tries to relax, but Charles’ hand falls over his cock and Erik’s hips pick up to press hot skin into Charles’ palm.

“And brilliant,” Charles continues. He closes his hand around the flesh Erik offers him and strokes slowly. “I was wrong about tattooing; Raven showed me that but you proved it.”

Here is a conversation Erik would like to have, but Charles is fucking it up with his emotional sincerity, hot breath, and the rough skin of his hand on Erik’s smooth shaft.

“God, and it’s just genetic luck, but this prick of yours is handsome.” Handsome enough that Charles moves down Erik’s body and leads said prick between his lips. He sucks it in hard and then pulls off slow, with enough suction that his cheeks are hollow as he draws up to the crown. Again, Charles releases his cock, but this time he lets go with his hand, too.

“I hope I have another chance to ride you,” Charles says, voice low and wanting, “but I’m going to do somewhat as you said.”

“I never said you should tease.” His own voice is rough, but he’s sure Charles knows it isn’t with censure. Erik has a good guess what Charles is up to when he moves over to lean over the side of the bed to fetch something and he strongly approves. The crinkle of the condom packets proves him right.

“It’s not teasing,” Charles says. He rips the packet open and strokes the condom down Erik’s cock. “It’s not teasing if I mean it. It’s not teasing when I care.”

Erik doesn’t approve of the last few words of either statement. Though Charles’ hand is good on his cock, Erik rotates his hands to unwind the sheets from them. He needs some control of the sex if Charles is going to be careless with sentiment. Erik doesn’t want sentiment.

Except he does. He wants sentiment desperately and he hates himself for it.

The second packet is in Charles’ hand, but Erik snags it before Charles can open it. “Keep it interpretive, Xavier.”

Unperturbed by Erik’s demanding action, Charles responds with a chuckle and resumes the maddening stroking of Erik engorged cock. “I said I’ll take responsibility.”

The statement is also unwanted, but vague enough for Erik to dismiss and he does so readily when Charles draws up Erik’s knees. Condom held in one hand, Erik reaches for his pillow with the other. He passes the pillow to Charles and together they jam it under Erik’s lean hips. Hips elevated, Charles gives Erik no time to second guess; he lifts Erik’s cock up and sucks himself down the length.

A harsh exhalation of pleasure leaves Erik at that; he may love having his nipples abused but nothing beats a blowjob. Charles is exceptionally talented for all he goes slower than Erik would like. Charles’ mouth is warm and his tongue is expert in exploiting the crown of his cock’s glans, or adding extra pressure to his shaft when Charles guides it down the hot constriction of his throat.

Erik breathes in sucking gasps through his teeth and relocates his hands to Charles’ hair. Charles throat is hot and tight; it’s an excellent channel for fucking. It’s so much more rigid than any other orifice he’s fucked. Another gust of breath escapes Erik in a near cough. He sinks his fingers further into Charles’ hair; the bastard lifts his balls in his free hand and licks his sac while his throat is full. Nobody has ever taken him so deep.

“Fuck, don’t, ah, don’t fucking choke.”

It feels like heaven for a moment, even if part of that is simply being impressed at Charles’ ability. But then Charles pulls off coughing. Erik isn’t surprised; he carefully runs his fingers through Charles’ hair and when Charles recovers from coughing, he wipes Charles’ reflexive tears from the corners of his eyes. He isn’t dissuaded by Charles’ watering eyes; he’s seen far worse and Charles is half laughing through the whole thing.

“I told you not to choke,” Erik says and threads his fingers back through Charles’ hair.

Charles winks through the last few coughs and quickly goes back down. This time he takes Erik shallowly, but uses suction and unceasing passes of his tongue over and around the glans on every upward motion. The pressure, friction, and heat drive Erik quickly toward orgasm; he raises his hips off the pillow, chasing Charles’ mouth. If only he would go faster, instead of taking such a slow pace or stop looking up from his cocksucking to look Erik in the eyes.

Since Charles doesn’t stop looking up, Erik stops looking down to watch his cock slide back and forth through Charles’ tight lips. It’s that or see something he doesn’t, but does, want to see in Charles’ darkened gaze.

It occurs to him in a moment of slow, luxuriant suction on his cock that Erik realizes he doesn’t even know why he had decided to go to bed with Charles this time. Is it because Charles accepts him despite what he’s done? Because Charles has overcome his dislike of tattooing? Erik often acts on impulse; can he trust himself this time when giving in to his id has so often delivered him into violence? The problem with this kind of sex, Erik thinks, is that even though it is incendiary, it doesn’t deliver him from thought.

The sex is good and hot and Erik feels his skin heat up with a fever that he wishes would incinerate the troubling questions in his head. And then Charles answer his prayers when he runs three lubricated fingers up and down the cleft of his ass. Erik bites his lower lip when one of those fingers presses forward and then inside his body; he’d forgotten how thick Charles’ fingers are. He bears down, enjoying the awkward feeling of it.

Charles pulls his mouth off Erik’s dick. “How long has it been? My prick’s perfectly average, but I don’t want to go too fast.”

“Couple months,” Erik says with some strain; keeping his voice even while Charles starts slotting a second finger into him is no easy feat. “Fuck.”

“Really?” Charles inclines his head and takes another mouthful of cock and sucks. The penetration feels twice as good for it. His mouth opens again for speech, but he slowly strokes Erik’s cock as he talks. “That’s around the last time I was in Portland.”

“Yeah,” Erik breathes, “why do you think I took so long in the bathroom that day?”

Charles’ irises recede in an obvious display of lust. “You mean, the last time we had sex—”

“Fucked.”

“—you fingered yourself in the shower beforehand?”

Erik closes his eyes for a moment just to luxuriate in the simultaneous pleasures of being finger-fucked and jerked off. “Yeah. The hot water helped me relax.”

“Fuck,” he hears Charles whisper urgently, “I need inside you.”

“Get in me, then.” Erik opens his eyes again and drops the other condom low on his abdomen. “I’ve had bigger dicks with less lube; you aren’t going to hurt me.”

For some reason the comment causes Charles’ fingers to falter and pause. Erik thinks maybe he’s insulted Charles’ size, but when Charles resumes he goes far slower than before. His voice holds a terrible conviction when he says, “Nobody should be so careless with you.”

The trouble in Erik’s chest, the conflict between butterflies and stinging things, breaks out once more. It’s uncomfortable and confusing and he’d like to push it away. He again wonders what he’s doing having sex with Charles at all. In confusion he decides to turn over so he can get up on hands and knees; it’s a literal interpretation of turning his back on his doubts. Besides, he doesn’t want to see Charles’ face when they fuck.

He places his foot on Charles’ wrist to push his hand away from his ass in preparation to turn, but Charles takes his hand from Erik’s cock and instead grabs Erik’s ankle.

“Let me get on all fours,” Erik says. Annoyance is apparent in his voice despite the fingers in his ass stroking up in an effort to find his prostate. They’re awfully close to the mark. He raises his hips and pushes his hands down flat on the bed to pull his ass off Charles’ thick fingers.

“My legs are shorter than yours,” Charles replies. “Facing each other will work better for both of us.”

“Missionary?” But then warm electricity shoots through him from deep within his core: Erik collapses awkwardly onto the pillow. Prostate located.

“Besides,” Charles continues, voice gone breathy, “I want to see your face when you come. You’re beautiful, elemental, when you come.”

Erik tosses his head to the left and then the right. He doesn’t care that he probably looks like a horse in his motions; he feels too good, he’s burning up, his chest is on fire. “Fuck me already then, Charles, or I’ll do it myself.”

It means the loss of Charles’ fingers, but the tearing of the condom packet is music to Erik’s ears. There’s another pass of lubricant, two of Charles’ fingers press in again, dive deep inside, and pull out. Erik lifts his hips with a snort of impatience and opens his mouth to urge Charles on.

His teeth close together with a clack that’s felt throughout his jaw; the slick head of Charles’ cock has made contact with Erik’s asshole. There’s pressure as Charles pushes his hips forward to nudge his prick through the muscle’s natural resistance.

It’s hard in this position to get leverage, but Erik bears down in an effort to take Charles hard and deep. Perhaps Charles’ has anticipated that Erik wouldn’t cease pushing the pace, because he quickly pulls up on one of Erik’s knees and rolls him backwards. Erik’s hips come off the pillow, his spine curves along the sheets and his shoulders hit the bed. Although distracted Erik doesn’t miss the delicious friction and stretch as Charles works his cock slowly in until the blunt head pushes through. His temperature rises once more, his breaths come faster.

“God, Erik,” Charles says, voice trembling. “God, yes.”

Despite the fast action taken to change their position, Charles proceeds slowly with shallow thrusts that carefully work his condom-covered cock deeper and deeper into Erik’s body. Erik was honest about having bigger dicks, but the slow pace somehow makes Erik feel all the more full when Charles’ hips come in contact with Erik’s ass and he can go no deeper.

Charles curses and Erik pants as Charles pulls back slowly in another display feat of willpower. It’s maddening; Erik can feel the slide of Charles’ cock within his flesh, rubbing over his prostate on the backstroke. He feels everything right down to the way the flared head of Charles’ cock pulls teasingly against the resistance of Erik’s anus. It’s a tease of several moments; Charles makes a circle of his hips and the underside of his glans applies pressure in a steady rotation against the inside of Erik’s asshole. His dick nearly comes out of Erik at least once in the gradual rotations.

Erik’s always been so concerned with his hard fucks that sex with this sort of precision has never crossed his mind. The newness is as titillating as the traveling pressure on his anus is erotic. He spares a glance at Charles and finds him panting, his brows drawn together in concentration. Erik knows where Charles’ gaze is fixed: right below his balls where Charles’ slicked up cock moves inside Erik’s ass.

Changing tactics, Charles moves smoothly forward, creating new friction, until his hips again meet with Erik’s ass. Erik hasn’t felt his body tighten with tension so fast since high school. His breath is coming in uneven gasps. He presses his arms down against the bed for leverage and when that doesn’t work, he lifts one leg and crosses it behind Charles’ ass. A fast, hard fuck burns less inside and out than the careful, precise sex he’s being given.

“Faster,” Erik demands. “ _Harder._ ”

But Charles doesn’t comply, not even with sweat breaking out on his skin, or his breath coming harsh as a bellows.

“I’m not going slowly; I’m going carefully,” Charles says. His speech is labored with gasps, punctuated by the slap of his hips against Erik’s ass. “Interpretatively.”

Interpretively? Erik wants to throw his head back and snort with scorn. But then it sinks in. If this is interpretive, what is Charles saying?

Erik lifts his eyes up to Charles in veiled alarm. The blue of Charles’ eyes are nearly eclipsed by pupil; he releases Erik’s other leg and reaches down to scrape gentle fingertips down the center of Erik’s chest, down and down until he reaches Erik’s cock. He takes it in hand and tugs gently, firmly.

Erik stops thinking. There’s a hot hand over his cock and a dick rubbing unerringly against his prostate. He tightens his leg around Charles’ hips and pulls himself hard onto Charles cock. He doesn’t care about the sound of protest Charles makes; he closes his eyes pulls hard again only for Charles to take his hand off Erik’s cock to push Erik’s hips down to the pillow.

“Carefully, Erik,” Charles insists. “You’re worth the effort.”

“Just fuck me!” Erik finally understands that this isn’t exactly fucking; this is slow and careful and emotional sex. And when Charles’ hand returns to Erik’s cock, when he taps Erik’s ass more firmly, but with no loss of care, it all becomes too much. Erik feels the tight knot of his muscles twist tight, judder; he rides the swell and then his orgasm crests. He’s pulled under the wave and slammed against the surf in a wracking of sensation far more powerful than he’s felt in years. The condom fills, warm and wet, with pulses of ejaculate and Erik finds himself dazed as wave after wave of lessening ecstasy leaves him exultant in the power his body has over him.

Charles is good enough to slip out when Erik slumps back exhausted, but not so good that he keeps the condom on when he jerks himself to swift completion. Clad in vertical lines, Charles is erotic performance art when he releases and come splashes lurid on the black of Erik’s thigh, abdomen, and ribs.

Directly after his release Charles collapses face down on the bed next to Erik, trapping one of Erik’s thighs in the process and rendering Erik’s body wide open. Charles’ weight is pleasant on Erik’s leg, but it can turn uncomfortable quickly thanks to Erik’s hip. Erik wants to enjoy the slow return of his pulse to normal and the rush of endorphins that fill him with uncharacteristic goodwill, but Erik pushes Charles off the captured leg rather than risk dislocation. Charles moves off, sweat and coagulating come make their skin slick, aiding the retreat.

In the quiet echoes of catching breath Erik’s discomfort, the crawling, squirming feeling under his sternum is more apparent than ever. Restlessness struggles with lethargy as he pulls off his condom and ties a knot in it. Activity is ever his escape. Erik sits up and makes for the side of the bed where the water basin and towels are closest.

“Wait, no,” Charles says. and lays a hand on Erik’s unadorned forearm. “Let me. I want this to be for you.”

Erik exhales and drops the condom in the waste basket between the bed and his drafting table. He’s caught between instinct and Charles’ request, but the sweet call of endorphins allows his upper body to fall back to the bed in acquiescence. His knees remain pointed at the unfinished ceiling.

Erik falls back and Charles rushes forward to the edge of the bed. Charles is an excellent distraction; he trains his eyes on Charles’ ass and then his thighs when he leans over the bed to soak one of the hand towels in warm water. Even with the distraction he returns to his questions. Was Charles serious about interpretive sex? Wasn’t that Erik’s joke?

Erik closes his eyes and frowns; he needs a different distraction. He hears the sound of water falling back in the basin; Charles’ is wringing the towel out. The dip of the bed is enough to announce Charles’ return. Soon a warm, wet cloth meets his cooling skin and wipes his torso, abdomen, and thighs of sticky semen.

“I really want to see the modeling you did for Triple Cha,” Charles says in a voice quiet, soothing, and something else Erik can’t decipher.

He opens his eyes. Maybe it’s better to gain more from sight than his other senses after all.

“I might do their spring line,” Erik replies. It will probably be the last time. “It depends on the timing.”

It is with tender ministrations that Charles takes a clean corner of the towel to Erik’s flaccid penis. A shudder shakes Erik’s spine at the contact; he’s oversensitive from the short-circuitry of his orgasm. “You’re a handsome man with a great prick,” Charles continues, “but that’s the least of it. You’re loyal, caring, and honest, too.”

Erik’s glad when Charles takes his hands away from his dick, because Erik is right back in that extremely uncomfortable zone. He tries to play it off with a shrug and a snort. “Those traits don’t photograph well.”

“Oh, but they do,” Charles says, smiling. He leans back and drops the towel to the floor and then pushes Erik’s knees down. Erik lets his heels slide away; it makes it possible for Charles to straddle Erik’s long thighs.

“I’m not convinced that’s what Triple Cha is going for,” Erik replies.

“I’m not talking about your lingerie shoots.” Charles collects Erik’s hands and pulls them together on his muscled thighs, Erik's not sure but they look less pale at that angle. “I’m talking about the Sentimental Ink shoot; they captured your loyalty and caring. It’s those traits that have been good for Raven.”

If Erik’s head wasn’t pressed against the bed, he’d jerk it back in denial. “What the fuck, Charles?” He doesn’t really think Charles wants to talk about Raven considering their presence in his bed. He’s glad they never actually made it beyond the kitchen, but Charles doesn’t need to know that.

“It’s why you’re good for Kitty, Xi’an, and many of your local clients.”

Erik tries to jerk his hands away; Charles only allows one hand escape, the other he keeps in warm confines of flesh and bone.

“You’re a good man, Erik Lehnsherr.”

The orgasmic endorphins flood away faster than they came on. Erik needs to get his feet under him to buck Charles off; he lifts his legs but Charles moves down and sits carefully on Erik’s hips. “This isn’t like you. You’ve been weird since I woke up.”

“Erik,” Charles says, voice hushed and hands warm around Erik’s captured hand. “This _is_ like me. How many times before now have I said the world is a better place with you in it? I told you before your outburst and I told you after.”

Erik shakes his head and tries to push away. “Stop saying that.”

“ _I’m_ better for you being in my world,” Charles continues. Erik struggles but only weakly; Charles keeps his seat. “You meant it as a joke, but you were right; I wanted to show you how I feel. Mock me if the emotion makes you feel vulnerable, but I wanted to make love with you. That wasn’t casual sex, not at all.”

“Make love? You’ve got to be kidding.” It feels strange shaking his head with the bed right behind, but Erik does so vigorously. Where’s the arrogant bastard from before? “I’m too fucked up for this kind of thing, Charles.”

“No, Erik,” Charles leans down over their hands so his face is close enough that Erik can feel Charles’ breath warm on his chest. “You’re perfect for this.”

“I hurt people,” Erik insists. “What if Raven or Kitty had been in Quicksilver?”

“Have you ever struck somebody you care about?”

It’s never happened, but Erik doesn’t want there to be a first time. He doesn’t even know why he’s arguing such a stupid point with Charles. Why is he putting up this ridiculous fight? Who in their right mind calls sex making love?

Charles takes Erik’s hand and presses it flat against Charles’ breastbone and then lowers his own hands on the mattress on either side of Erik’s chest. A twist to the side brings him over the left half of Erik’s chest. Erik watches in stomach-churning bewilderment as Charles moves his head down and presses soft lips to the dragon. “In some cultures a flawless work of art is unholy, an affront to deities or temptation to malevolent spirits. Your flaws are what keep you among mortals, Erik.”

Under his fingers Erik can feel the beat of Charles’ heart; he pushes against Charles’ chest, instinctively seeking to move him away. Nobody has ever given Erik the kind of poetic and thoroughly uplifting compliments Charles has. It makes his breath come fast and his heart clench. He wants to throw Charles off and away. Under normal circumstances Erik has the strength to do so, but his arm shakes and his formidable will doesn’t straighten his elbow the way it should.

“Charles,” Erik says in a voice so weak he hates himself for it, “you don’t understand. I ruin everything, everyone.”

The streetlights’ orange is reflected in Charles’ eyes; the light illuminates the extra water that covers them. “It’s okay, Erik, you’re afraid you won’t be able to protect the people you love. If you don’t love anyone, you won’t get hurt again. And, me, I’ve been afraid of abandonment. If I don’t care deeply about anyone, it won’t hurt when they leave. Maybe we can help each other overcome our fears.”

Erik takes his hand from Charles’ chest and crosses both arms over his face. His chest aches and his eyes burn and he can’t think. How can he think of a sufficient response for this when he knows, but has never wanted to admit that it’s exactly what he wants? That the only way he could admit his feelings at all was by drawing them? Erik can be eloquent, but not with feelings; he has no vocabulary for this. According to Frost, much of that was stunted by months on end in teen solitary.

Charles shifts above him. A warm hand takes a hold of Erik’s left arm; he doesn’t resist when Charles pulls it away, but he doesn’t remove his left forearm from his burning eyes. “It’s okay if you don’t want to try with me, but promise me you’ll try with somebody better someday in the future.”

Erik swallows at the weight in his throat. This isn’t the time to pass on his part of the conversation so he opens his mouth to speak, but he doesn’t know what words to contribute. Vaguely, he notices the crease of inner elbow over his eyes is wet and filling with something other than sweat.

Then he feels light pressure on his right arm, on his bicep, where the heart completes his arm’s tattooed sleeve. He feels gentle suction and the quiet sound of a broken seal: Charles has kissed him. In the aftermath, in the tingling on Erik’s skin, he chokes out a word. “Okay.”

The air changes abruptly, a new tension is introduced. “Okay to somebody better?”

Erik’s throat works steadily before he can force out, “Somebody worse.”

He allows his other arm to be lifted away. He opens his eyes to Charles; he has one hand on Erik’s bicep and Erik’s wrist in his hand. A shining road is open beneath either of Charles’ wide eyes. “I’m worse, right? I’m the one that’s worse?”

Even though Erik is mortified to find his nose has started to run and breathing is difficult for the blockage, he can’t help but smile through it. “I can’t think of anyone worse.”

Before he can struggle to say anything more, he suddenly has a face full of Charles and Charles’ arms around his arm and neck. It’s uncomfortable but it’s the kneejerk discomfort a person feels when they step into warm mud. It’s disgusting at first, but inevitably starts to feel good.

At long last, with his upper body cocooned by Charles, the stinging things within Erik’s chest and ribs die and the butterflies fly away. He isn’t at peace, but he’s the closest he’s been in many years.

“Oh, Erik,” Charles promises, “I’ll be the worst there ever was.”

* * *

 The morning sun bounces off red brick and fills the bedroom with warm light. Erik has slept through both his alarm and natural instincts. Charles’ legs are tangled in Erik’s, but he’s careful not to make sudden moves or do anything that might wake him; he remembers the hints that Erik can wake swinging and doesn’t want to jeopardize what was given last night. There are traces of salt around Erik’s eyes and they are, to Charles, endearing trails that he wishes to kiss onto his own lips.

Erik is on his side; Charles’ body mirrors him and shelters him from some of the second-hand sunlight, though more bounces from the white walls to illuminate his features in warm and cool ambience. He’s beautiful, certainly, but that’s less important to Charles than it used to be.

What makes Erik precious is that he knows all Charles’ baggage, all his flaws, and despite Erik’s own flaws and baggage, is taking a chance on him. Had anyone told him a year ago that he would have his heart stolen by a tattooed felon that had sex with his sister, he would have laughed them to scorn.

Charles’ heart swells as he looks at the planes and angles of Erik’s face. His gaze travels down his throat, across the dragon on his chest, to the heart on Erik’s arm. One day it will be his.

 


	18. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Throughout this fic I've had a lot of help from several people who have given me advice, freely offered of their knowledge, and have gone so far as to research things for me (medical things, legal issues, paintings of St. Sebastian, tattoo and piercing terminology, etc). Thank you so much. Thank you to people who have commented; I'm not good at writing in a vacuum. Without you this fic would have been another abandoned WIP. 
> 
> Thank you particularly to mixture, eilidh/almaisan, and rumcity/luciddrugs for all your work as prelim readers, researchers, and hand-holders. And, of course, the amazing people that produced fanworks for this fic; you guys killed me with your generosity.
> 
> Finally, I'm doing a [final round of Ask tattoo fic Charles and Erik](http://euphorbic.tumblr.com/post/124479769248/final-round-of-ask-tattoo-fic-charles-or-erik).

* * *

 

 

_Epilogue_

It’s almost 3am when Raven’s phone begins chiming. Hank makes uncomfortable waking-up sounds behind her but she doesn’t flip the phone over to ignore the call; it’s Charles’ ring tone. He knows her GMT intimately and wouldn’t call unless it was important. So she stretches her arm and her fingers and takes the phone.

“Are you okay?” is the first thing out of her mouth.

“I’m so sorry,” Charles says from somewhere the sun has been shining, theoretically, for the last three hours or so. “Can you perhaps move out of the bedroom so we don’t wake Hank?”

“Yeah,” Raven says, mumbling. “Yeah, I’m going to the kitchen. Are you okay?”

“I am,” Charles whispers. “I am, but I need to talk to somebody I trust.”

Raven smiles despite her concern and eases out of the nest of body heat she and Hank have created together. Charles occasionally confides in her these days, mostly on the topic of his love life which hasn’t happened since high school when he realized he was attracted to people regardless of gender.

“Okay,” she whispers back.

It’s dark throughout the small house but Raven navigates from their bedroom, down the hall and to the kitchen by memory. In the kitchen the window over the sink is cracked enough to allow in the recent rain’s revival of wet grass and decomposing leaves. Raven backs up to the kitchen bench and hoists herself up to sit next to the slow drip of the kitchen sink.

“I’m in the kitchen,” she says, “but I can’t raise my voice after getting out of bed; Hank might wake up the rest of the way.”

“I’m sorry,” Charles replies, but Raven’s really not sure if he actually is. “Erik sent me the image for your project. I’ll pass it to you.”

“Okay.”

She receives the image over their messenger app nearly instantly and when she takes the phone from her cheek and opens the notification she understands why he called. “Jesus fuck, Charles, this is serious, isn’t it? Is this what you want?”

But she knows the answer even before Charles starts in with breathless laughter.

* * *

“Last chance to back out,” Erik says.

Raven rolls her eyes at Erik’s teasing and continues the grunt work of separating paper towels for him. She might have taken over Quicksilver since Erik left to tour the world on his German-issued EU passport, but she will always be his apprentice.

Quicksilver isn’t his anymore, but that hasn't stopped Erik from rearranging the workspace to make the most use of the light coming in through and around Raven’s collection of plants in the windows. Charles’ thigh is prepped; he’s lying down on the bench, one leg of his boxer briefs rolled up to the joint, and arms crossed behind his head. He’s the picture of calm, but Raven knows better; last night over drinks he got teary-eyed with emotion and Raven took him aside to talk while Hank and Erik discussed the physics of tattoo splash back. It’s exhilarating to ease even further into the role of confidante.

“For Christ’s sake, I volunteered for this knowing full well the consequences,” Charles says in clear exasperation. “Just start.”

“Stop provoking my brother,” Raven says. “Your favorite prelude to sex has no business in my workroom.”

The look Erik directs her way would send anyone that didn’t know him better into a defensive tizzy. Raven ignores him and reaches over to flick on the tattoo machine; she suspects that Erik’s delaying tactics are also meant to tease her. After all, this is a big moment for all of them.

“That isn’t his favorite prelude to sex,” Charles says from the bench. “When he’s in town he just presses his morning wood against my arse.”

Raven thinks Charles has been in England too long; the strengthening of his accent and word choice always gives him away. “I am _so_ glad Hank isn’t here to listen to this. C’mon guys, just shut up and get to work.”

Her impatience seems to give Erik what he wanted; a small turn at the corners of his mouth reveals a smile that he hides by pulling the surgical mask over his face. He dips his needles in an ink cup. “Deep breath, and let it out slowly.”

Charles complies and Erik’s machine descends to the sketch that’s been transferred onto his shaved skin. Raven sees Charles flinch as the needles bear into his flesh in rapid succession. He hides it well in public, but she knows he’s longed for this moment for a while now; it’s all the sweeter for what Raven and Hank have contributed.

“Thank you, Charles,” she says as Erik works on the outline. “I really appreciate what you’re doing for us.”

“Hush,” Charles replies through grit teeth. “You know I’ve wanted to get you out of tattooing. If this works out in the long run I will eventually get my way, won’t I?”

Erik snorts but doesn’t deviate from his work. He doesn’t usually talk while he’s working and that hasn’t changed, but the music on Raven’s sound system is Charles’ lounge music and the incense burned before Erik started was Erik’s; there’s no smoke, just the lingering scent.

Raven doesn’t take Charles’ bait, either. She knows just as much as Charles does that even if the ink has the staying power they hope for, even if her trust-fund backed business takes off, she’ll never give up the needles that gave her freedom. Instead she asks him about his recent experiences with the Craniofacial Foundation of Europe.

Charles donates generously to the UK’s Operation Smile, but has been frustrated enough by the CFE’s internal politics that he’s started talking about getting on the board of directors. Charles has the motivation and money to either take the CFE or start a new one and poach all the former members. He just has to decide which way will be for the greater good.

They sit together for three hours, take a short break, and then continue on another two. By the fifth hour Erik admits his wrist is aching, which means it’s probably been hurting since the fourth. All the same, he finishes the heart and blood, because the color fastness of Hank’s red is what they’re most interested in.

“It looks pretty good fresh,” Raven says.

“Doesn’t look much different than any other red,” Erik replies. “But a month of sun and diving in Phan Thiết should make it clear if the ink is going to last.”

Raven can see that Charles is less concerned with the upcoming holiday that doubles as a test and more with the imagery Erik’s engraved in his skin. Before Erik manages to wipe away all the excess ink, Charles slips off the bench and pads barefoot over to the mirror opposite the windows. Raven sees the shine in his eyes, the press of his lips as he looks at the mirror image of the unicorn-knight chess pieces and playing card imagery Erik designed for him last year.

It’s overwhelming for a moment; she had initially thought Erik and Charles would just be good fuck buddies. It wasn’t until later she realized there was more to them than animal attraction. And here Charles stands now with a tattoo that redefines her journeyman tattoo; Erik has made her tattoo his own and he’s done it through Charles with ink she and Hank hope will become the basis of a new business and greater freedom.

It’s more than she ever hoped for.

She looks back at Erik. His eyes are on Charles, his left hand unconsciously rubbing at his right wrist. She asks, “You like what you see?”

Erik nods and passes her the disinfectant wipes so she can attend to the fresh tattoo and the remaining ink. “You take pictures while I call in an order to Morpho and then we can go down to eat.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Raven collects her camera and listens to Erik’s footsteps as he goes for the shop phone.

She joins Charles before the mirror where he continues to look at the tattoo. He’s holding together well, all things considered. Every now and again, though, she sees the extra water in his eyes, but she says nothing because Charles has never liked her to intrude or pry into his feelings. It’s important to her that he gives them to her freely.

“Let me get the rest of the ink off, dumbass,” she says and crouches next to him to wipe the ink off his leg. It’s been obvious since the first hour of work that the piece is one of Erik’s best works; she’ll have to try to convince him to submit for an award or something. “You know, this could win a competition if Erik would show it with you at a convention.”

“Really?” Charles takes his eyes from the mirror and looks down at her. “I wouldn’t be opposed, but I don’t think Erik would do it; it reveals too much about him. There are too many people following his career that would get the significance.”

“True.” Raven passes the paper towel up to Charles and turns on her camera. “But it would be the icing on the proverbial cake, you know? To see the two of you standing together with an award for this tattoo.”

Charles hums a sound of agreement. “It would, but he’s also still paranoid after the whole Facebook thing.”

“I’m glad I found it first and that he waited until you were home to open it.”

Erik had reacted poorly when a cousin in New York had contacted him after recognizing Erik on the cover of Sentimental Ink. Erik had swept his laptop from Charles’ desk along with half the clutter that resided there. Charles had helped him calm down before things got worse and Erik had later paid for the repair of one of Charles’ vintage fountain pens and replaced a paperweight. It was a milder reaction than expected, but they weathered the sudden storm together.

“Apparently he has more family in New York than Germany,” Charles says. “After the Facebook message, I think he painstakingly went through that cousin’s Facebook and blocked everyone he could find there and then blocked said cousin.”

“Sounds like him.” Raven had always wondered if family was the reason Erik hated all the social media she’d forced him into.

Raven pushes on the side of Charles’ knee to get him to pivot into the direction of the windows. She takes several shots in natural light and then takes him to the big bathroom for more in white light conditions. In a few days a photographer friend of Janos’ will take more photos as part of their project.

When they’ve finished shooting, Raven dresses the tattoo in a bandage. They come into the sunlit gallery space to find Erik doing wrist stretches by the windows. Charles joins him there and takes over from Erik; Charles has enlisted his boxing trainer to teach him massage therapy for Erik’s wrists. It’s sweet seeing Charles try to take care of Erik and for Erik to accept the gesture.

Erik turns toward Charles and Raven notes how he turns a foot out and moves his weight to the leg closest to Charles. It’s a habit she hadn’t noticed until Charles pointed it out. It’s the smallest tell and she doesn’t always notice it, but it speaks volumes when she does.

“Put your shorts on,” Erik says as they stand together. “Kitty’s bringing up the order.”

“I thought we were going down?” Charles asks.

“Kitty doesn’t want to get called away by other customers,” Erik says by way of explanation. “And I don’t want your thigh to get bumped.”

“Ah, shorts it is.” He releases Erik’s forearm and kisses his jaw. “Next session you better promise to stop when your wrist hurts; the manly man act doesn’t impress me.”

“Says the man that worked out and dieted for two months just so he could crack a walnut with his thighs,” Erik retorts.

The bray-like laughter that erupts from Raven’s mouth is so loud it covers whatever Charles shoots back as a retort. It also covers Kitty coming in through the front door, but not the cold October breeze that sneaks in past her. Raven tries to calm down, but the curious look on Kitty’s face and the way Erik hustles Charles toward the work room further unglues her.

“Hey Raven,” Kitty says, staring off at Erik’s back. She takes their bags and drinks over to the coffee table by the couch and unpacks everything, including a wax paper parcel that’s judiciously taped with bright green masking tape. “How’d the tattoo go?”

Raven calms down enough to smile normally and joins Kitty at the table. She thinks she knows the real reason Kitty brought the order up herself. “Going well so far. How’s Lockheed?”

“Big,” Kitty deadpans. “He’s been eating a lot more since I made him a bigger enclosure and added another heat rock. My big scaly baby is growing up.”

“What’s in the wax paper? Special delivery?”

Kitty’s cheeks flush a faint pink. “I cooked some stupid food for Erik and your brother. It’s my mom’s recipe. Erik likes it. That asshole.”

Raven thinks about it for half a second, but then puts one arm around Kitty’s shoulders. “Well, to tell you the truth, I’ve discovered I have a special gift for asshole whispering. I know it sounds like farting, or talking out my ass, but what I mean is: I can help you with asshole language and culture.”

Kitty looks at Raven with the most profound expression of teenage disapproval Raven has ever laid eyes on. Kitty’s head is down, and she looks up from beneath serious eyebrows; her frown set deep in her face. “Raven, don’t make me burn the new socks you gave me.”

“I will eat those socks if Erik doesn’t do whatever you ask him. It’s not romantic or anything but he really likes you. He’ll listen. Besides, he probably feels bad that he only gave you two months of lessons before he left.”

“Pffft,” Kitty scoffs, “he teaches me online whenever he’s somewhere the wifi is solid. So far Charles has the best wifi; I hope they become live-in boyfriends or something.”

Raven has been hoping the same, but she doesn’t say anything about it now; she never shows her hand when it comes to the relationship Charles and Erik have for fear of jinxing it. It’s the one topic she’s hesitant to speak of even with Hank. “Guess we’ll see. Anyway, Erik has a hard time denying you, so ask him whatever you have in mind.”

Raven has a theory about how Erik gets on so well with Kitty and the other workers at Morpho. She thinks it’s because they’re all young and that Erik unconsciously craves the sort of normal teenage relationships he never had in prison. Maybe it’s why he had connected so strongly with Kitty’s friend Xi’an even though nobody has ever told him Kitty’s ulterior motive in recommending her to him.

At her hip, Raven’s phone buzzes and she disengages from Kitty long enough to check if it’s a message from Hank. It is. _Do you want me to cook tonight or are we going out with Charles again? What does Erik think of the ink’s viscosity?_

She grins at the first sentence and is spurred into action by the second. _You should talk to Erik! I don’t know why you’re so intimidated when he’s really interested in this. How about I bring Charles and Erik to our place? You could make your dad’s eggplant parmesan and discuss viscosity over dinner._

Charles and Erik come back in while she’s typing, but she doesn’t miss the one-armed hug Erik squeezes into Kitty’s shoulders. Kitty’s not half so reserved; she shoves her face into his chest and holds him tight. Half of her speech is muffled by Erik’s torso but Raven makes out ‘asshole’ and ‘hate you’ in the midst of it. Raven sends her message to Hank, but remains unmoving, her head bowed to her phone and listens.

“If that’s how you say hello to your friends,” Charles says, “I’m not sure I want to get on your bad side.”

Raven glances up quickly to see Erik’s fond expression as he watches Kitty pull her face from his shirt. It’s not the first time she’s seen him look at Kitty like that. In addition to his loss of normal teenage relationships, Raven thinks Erik might have been lonely as an only child. There’s no telling though; whatever he reveals to Charles, Charles rarely passes on to her.

“I missed you, too,” Erik says.

Kitty nods. “You better have. Xi’an’s seeing somebody and doing Goldsprint championships so we don’t hang out as much and Lockheed probably doesn’t even remember you. My mom keeps asking if you’re going to move back.”

This time Raven doesn’t even bother to hide her curiosity; she lifts her head up and glances briefly at Charles. Charles is biting his lips. Raven switches targets, homes in on Erik, the way his eyes track toward her brother and then back down to Kitty.

“I don’t know,” Erik replies. “While I’ve been in Europe I’ve been working off and on in England as a guest artist at a few different shops. But it’s getting on my nerves that most shops I guest at don’t keep up an acceptable level of sterilization. So I’m looking into opening a new place.”

Kitty whirls and stabs a finger at Charles. “I blame you for this.”

There’s not a hint of guilt on Charles’ face. He raises his hands in surrender and smiles sweetly. “I’m sorry Kitty, but I have many years more experience and far fewer ethics than you when it comes to getting what I want. Next time don’t hesitate.”

Both Erik and Kitty roll their eyes at the amount of arrogance Charles has knowingly pulled into the gallery space. Raven knows Charles’ is playing with Kitty but she’s not sure if Kitty does.

With a snort that seems to say she isn’t the least bit intimidated, Kitty grabs her wax paper parcel off the coffee table and thrusts it at Erik. “I made you boyos but I’m never going to give you the recipe. You have to come back for ‘em.”

“I could find him a recipe online,” Charles interjects even though he’s fooling nobody. Charles can be a competitive jerk, but they all know he’d never attempt a hostile takeover of Kitty’s mother’s comfort food.

“That’s no good,” Kitty replies archly. “My mom’s recipe is always being fine-tuned. Even though it’s good now, she’ll find a way to make it better.”

“Kitty.” Erik takes the wax paper parcel and replaces it on the coffee table. “As long as Hank, Raven, and you are here in Portland, I’ll always come back. I’ll be back in a month and I’ll be back again for a few weeks in April.”

Kitty brightens at that. “If you’re here then, we’ll package up our Pesach leftovers for you like usual.”

“Maybe.” Erik blows a light sigh through his nose and looks over at the windows in thought. “Maybe if the timing’s right, I’ll join you.”

The diameter of Kitty’s sudden widening of eyes or the strength of her gasp of is indication enough that Erik’s answer is unexpected.

Raven’s heart leaps in her chest in response; Erik has never accepted Kitty’s family’s attempts to include him in their religious celebrations. He’s never even given the slimmest glimmer of hope to Kitty or her mother that he would.

Kitty breathes out a long breath and nods enthusiastically. “That would be awesome. And I’ll make sure nobody says anything about your tattoos.”

Erik shrugs at that and Kitty throws herself at him once more.

Raven shakes her head ruefully at Erik’s lack of reply to the tattoo topic; Erik is still the type to disengage when it suits him or decline a conversation no matter how much someone else might want to have it.

From her right there’s a touch on Raven’s hip. She finds Charles next to her, smiling softly. She enjoys a moment of peace with him before she leans her shoulder into his and says, “I think you two are going to be alright.”

“I hope so.” Charles says… and leans back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will mark this complete, but there will be a last 'pseudo chapter' of cut scenes and other extras.


	19. Cut scenes (pseudo chapter)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cut scenes, compilation of 'Ask tattoo fic Charles or Erik', and a few things about the fic that motivate characters but weren't shown. Plus a recipe for boyos.

 

(An early cut scene; Erik would avoid Morpho under such crowded conditions.)

 

> Erik is strong-willed enough to only eat one of the chocolate chip, lavender cookies as he sits at Morpho, the vegan café with a decaf Americano. He’s been using Raven’s tablet on Quicksilver’s wifi; Morpho’s is utterly bogged down by the Saturday night crowd that showed up for open mic night. Being Saturday, Kitty’s not there for him to thank for the last Americano, but Darwin is and they harass each other when there’s a break between acts that coincides with a lull in Erik’s research.
> 
> “So,” Darwin says, at one such lull, “I know Quicksilver is your baby and all, but why are you down here on a Saturday?”
> 
> “Trying to generate some ideas for an unorthodox client,” Erik admits. “He hasn’t given me any direction, so I’m seeing what I can figure out.”
> 
> “Collector?” Darwin leans over the counter to take a look between the tablet’s screen and Erik’s croquis pad. “Aren’t they happy to just get whatever you want to do? Dead, white, Christian guys aren’t your usual fair.”
> 
> “True,” Erik says, amusement creeping around the edges of his voice. “But he’s named after a Catholic saint and is suitably self-righteous.” 

 

  
(This was a screw up from Xi’an’s last tattoo session. I even have Charles ordering coffee though he prefers tea.)  

 

> “And,” she moves closer and lower her voice, “he’s working on a client that needs me to be here for personal reasons.”
> 
> “Personal reasons?” Charles keeps his voice just as low. “Why didn’t they just hire you?”
> 
> “Personal reasons,” Raven repeats. “Would you mind going down to Morpho and grabbing me some coffee and a sandwich? Kitty and Darwin both know what I usually get. Tell Kitty that Xi’an will be ready to go in about an hour.”
> 
> “Of course,” he replies, but remains deeply intrigued. “Kitty is a gem; I’ll be more than happy to abuse her hospitality.”
> 
> “Don’t bug her if the lunch crowd is still there,” Raven says needlessly.
> 
> Charles scoffs and heads back down the stairs an into the sunny, late August day. The weather is beautiful; mostly sunny with a cool breeze. Perfect weather for an event as long as the wind off the Pacific doesn’t pick up. The scent of the ocean is faint and makes the day all the more lovely for it. Charles heads down the sidewalk and rounds the corner to Morpho which seems to be fairly busy despite the later hour.
> 
> Fortunately, while almost all the tables are taken, there’s no queue enabling him to walk right up to the counter. Behind the counter he sees Kitty and Darwin. Darwin spins the milk inside the metal pitcher before pouring it inside the coffee cup he has tilted at an angle in his other hand. Kitty watches the pour in rapt interest as Darwin manipulates the pitcher. He sets the cup down just as Charles walks up and then takes a toothpick to the top of it. Darwin uses the toothpick to draw espresso-crema whiskers on a surprisingly intricate not-real-milk foam cat; it even has a tail. “There you go, Miss Kitty.”
> 
> Kitty’s smile is brilliant. She looks at Charles and says, “I can do a face, but I can never get the tail right.”
> 
> “Then I’ll have a cappuccino with a kitty,” Charles replies, “Raven’s usual coffee, and three sandwiches, one of them being kosher.”
> 
> “All our food is vegan,” Kitty sighs, “it’s kosher by default.”

  
(I cut this scene because it was the worst possible thing Charles could say at a time Erik couldn’t deal with it. If this didn’t sink the possibility of a relationship, it would be so much harder for me to finish the fic on a positive note.) 

 

> “Who was it?” Charles asks. “Who was it you couldn’t protect?”
> 
> Erik hears the clatter of his fork as it hits his plate before he even registers that he all but threw it the short distance. Charles pupils have dilated in what can only be a sense of danger, but he didn’t even flinch.
> 
> Fuck, where is his calm? The comforting warmth of seconds before is being consumed in a flash flood of anger. Erik forces himself to pick up the fork with slow, careful movements. The last thing he wants is to make Charles relive whatever traumas he and Raven experienced in their childhood home.
> 
> “I’m not going to pretend I didn’t just throw my fork, but I’m not going to answer your question, either.” Saying this much is hard and Erik can feel fury crawling up his throat with the effort. His skin feels cold, but the blood pumping from his heart is burning. He glares down at his plate rather than meet Charles’ eyes; he desperately doesn’t want Charles to see the animal in him. If eyes are the windows to the soul, Erik’s sure his have a scenic view of hell. “I have an anger management problem.”
> 
> “Is that why you have the punching bag?” Charles’ voice is soft and steady and betrays not a hint of arrogance or disdain. “Is that why you meditate?”
> 
> “Charles,” Erik warns, “drop it. Just drop it. Talk about you and Raven.”
> 
> Silence drags and even that is enough to feed Erik’s rising anger. Wisely, he closes his eyes and draws a bead on the number twenty and starts counting backward and immediately concentrates on breathing slow, deep, calming breaths. He’s between fifteen and ten when Charles starts talking, but he doesn’t listen until he’s made it to zero. 

  
(After removing that mess, I overcompensated!)  

 

> “Honestly, I’ve been attracted to you since I met you and it has been maddening. I want very much to hate you because you somehow get under my skin. You’re… you’re like that ink of yours. I would very much like it if we could have a relationship that was independent of our mutual friend, Raven. Because of, surely, but not dependent on.”
> 
> For several quiet moments Erik stares at Charles, his face a blank. Clouds pass somewhere overhead rendering the room in waves of warm or cool light. Charles can’t help but feel it might mirror some sort of struggle in Erik’s head.
> 
> “Are you asking to date me?” Erik finally says in voice that is just as quiet as the room, but solid as the concrete floor.
> 
> “I’m only asking,” Charles replies, trying to maintain a confident air, “if you want me to ask. If you wish, you may beat me to the punch and ask me instead.”
> 
> The quirk of Erik’s lips looks like victory, but Charles wills himself not to celebrate prematurely. Erik’s lips can be a source of sensual pleasure, but more often they dispense no small amount of acerbic wit. “I bet you’re feeling vulnerable and exposed right now.”
> 
> Charles frowns. “Don’t be a prick, Erik.”
> 
> The quirk to Erik’s mouth fades a little, but doesn’t disappear entirely. “I haven’t been in a romantic relationship for a long time.”
> 
> “But you said you had a girlfriend?” Charles carefully reaches out and runs a finger down Erik’s smooth jawline; he must have shaved in the shower. His skin is warm. Charles’ touch is banished from Erik’s skin when Erik pushes his finger away.
> 
> “You live a continent and an ocean away,” Erik says. “But I travel sometimes and you apparently have a ridiculous amount of wealth. I think I can try this, but don’t get your hopes up.”
> 
> Charles is no fool, even though his heart lifts and a wave of excitement begins to grow in his gut, he knows this tentative yes is fragile.

 

(Another false start for the Interpretive Sex scene which I basically rushed; instead of Erik getting some rest, they go straight Erik’s place to fuck.

(Originally I wanted the sex scene to happen in the living space because Erik’s bedroom isn’t very intimate, not as much as his living space is. However, I then saw the opportunity to change a place that should be intimate into an intimate space as a reflection of Erik’s change. So I changed my mind again. However, in the end, I just decided I should start over instead of trying to save this and just cannibalize it.) 

 

> Erik doesn’t have a plan. Not really. Sometimes in art there are happy moments when something falls together without him consciously thinking about it. Such as leaving his truck at Quicksilver and letting Charles drive them to Erik’s apartment. Or like taking the elevator for once and kissing Charles breathless until his floor. Or showering with Charles for thirty minutes because as tired as he is, Erik’s attraction and desire for Charles is undergoing a renaissance and he demands in no uncertain terms that Charles fulfill their sexual agreement.
> 
> After the shower Erik checks Charles’ flank for scarring in the bedroom. Charles’ skin glows in contoured stripes in the shadows of his venetian blinds. Working in light and shadow, Erik leans over Charles and touches the fading lines of his handiwork. He’ll have some light scarring, but over the years most of it will fade. Even now only Erik or Charles could say for certain what image was nearly captured there on his lower back; many of the lines are already gone. It’s something of a relief as Erik had never envisioned the design there.
> 
> Charles rises up on his elbows and looks over his bare shoulder in an obvious attempt to see what Erik is doing. “Are you looking at my tattoo thing or my arse? Because I can tell you where I’d rather you be.”
> 
> Erik straightens from where he’s crouched by the bed and indicates the basin, lube, condoms and towels they assembled together. “Hopefully something that involves you up my ass.”
> 
> An embarrassingly loud snort of laughter escapes Charles. He turns over on his back and sits up, an impossibly boyish smile on his face but something Erik might define as sincerity in his eyes. Erik is mesmerized by that expression just as much as the light coming through the blinds moves across Charles’ pale skin, lighting him in bars of golden light.
> 
> “Actually,” Charles says, and scoots forward so his knees bracket Erik’s hips. “I think the couch might be better for what I have planned.”
> 
> Erik quirks an eyebrow. “That’s a limited space, Charles. But if you want to fuck me over the side, we can try that.”
> 
> Charles leans forward and presses soft lips to Erik’s chest. He pulls back, smiling as softly as his kiss. “I was thinking more about using the cushions to get your hips higher.”
> 
> Both Erik’s eyebrows go up in mild surprise; he had thought Charles would take him on hands and knees like Erik had taken him the first time. Now it sounds more like Charles wants to try missionary and Erik isn’t sure he likes that idea.
> 
> “If you don’t want to, we can try something else,” Charles says, perhaps sensing Erik’s reluctance, “but I want to try something I haven’t done before. Maybe something you haven’t, either.”
> 
> “From everything you and Raven have said,” Erik replies, “there isn’t much you haven’t tried.”

 

(And finally, this is a false start for the epilogue; I was thinking of Erik tattooing Charles during his tour. Then I realized it wouldn’t happen that way for a test of the new ink.)

  

> The buzzing of Erik’s tattoo machine is the song of a good friend too long unheard, but the grousing of the man on Erik’s current bench is not something she ever goes long without hearing. Raven is here on her own dime; she’s yet to make peace with the fortune she inherited at the deaths of two people that made her life a living hell. She’s far more at home thriving on the skills that Erik gave her. She’s not sure if he’s a parental figure or what; she doesn’t like the idea of having bumped uglies with a father figure.
> 
> There’s a light breeze and late afternoon sunlight coming in through the window in the exposed brick of the little studio Erik is working in this month. In the doorway, sheer green curtains roll in waves, propelled by the ocean-scented air.

* * *

 

A compilation of most of the Ask tattoo fic Charles and Erik questions. There were about three rounds? I think answers from this round put people off of asking Erik because he made no attempt to be nice. Also, the First Round was asked right before Raven’s show so the questions and answers reflect that. 

 

> **rozf asked:**
> 
> Question for everyone from the tattoo fic: what music (song, artist, genre) is representative of where you are in your life?

_Charles_ :

A music lover! Oh, that’s a lovely question, thank you very much. I listen to a lot of different music, but I think lately Vivaldi’s Four Seasons is very appropriate for me. Raven?

 _Raven_ :

Oh, shit. Where I am in my life? Janelle Monae’s song with Eryka Badu,  _Q.U.E.E.N._  is currently my mantra. I’m probably going to use it at my show. Seriously, that song is all me all the time right now. But anyway, Erik’s probably got something horrible to say. I know, Sting’s  _Fortress Around your Heart._ Erik, say  _Fortress Around Your Heart_.

 _Erik_ :

I don’t know. Hauschka’s new album. 

  

>   **kageillusionz asked:**
> 
> For all three, what food are you currently craving right now?

_Raven_ :

Have you ever had banh xeo!? Oh my God, they are so good. It’s not quite pho weather in Portland, but banh xeo, yes. It’s this turmeric pancake filled with sprouts, pork, and shrimp. Evil question; I’m so hungry now! 

 _Charles_ :

I don’t want to admit this, but Morpho has these incredible cranberry and orange biscotti that are somehow vegan and gluten-free. They’re incredible and I can foresee myself taking as many as possible back with me.

 _Erik_ :

I’ve been craving beer-battered fish and chips. Heavy on the beer.

 

> **eilidh asked:**
> 
> Erik, do you ever wonder whether you might be a bit of a drama queen? ;D

_Raven_ :

Oh my shit.

 _Erik_ :

No… [sound of fingers drumming on a table] …no, can’t say that I do.

 

 

> **Anonymous asked:**
> 
> Erik, I saw your work in that magazine and I think it is just so cool! Do you think you would do me? Tattoo me, I mean. I'd really like some of those awesome eastern-letter tattoos. They look so exotic and awesome!

_Erik_ :

It’s my policy not to tattoo anything I can’t read.

 

 

> **luciddrugs asked:**
> 
> To all three of them: What are your fav aesthetics? (In any way from art to ambience to anyway it is interpreted) (does this question make sense omg)

_Erik_ : 

I like technical drawings. Mechanical diagrams, autocad, medical diagrams, new and old anatomy texts, but I want to find an organic expression despite the harshness of those unnaturally lines. Currently I’m developing an aesthetic sense akin to Akira Yamaguchi. I did a ship for a client recently that was influenced by his work. Here.

 

> The piece I did for her wasn’t this detailed, but I did as much detail as I could, handicapped as we are by the size of the line. 

 _Raven_ :

I’m mostly influenced by color. That’s one of the things that drew me to Erik’s work. He would have these technical tattoos, right, like that one, but with these splashes of color or random colorful text. I’d never seen anything like it. It’s more common now, but it was shocking back when I was in art school

But I don’t like the technical stuff. I’m more influenced by my background in fine arts and all the picture books Charles would read to me when we were kids. We had tons. Man, I hope I’m answering your question properly.

How about this, maybe my greatest influence or my favorite aesthetic comes from stained glass. Like, imagine standing in a cathedral, maybe Notre Dame, and the sun is coming in through that huge stained glass window and the colored light just wraps and warps around you. And as you move around, the colors slip and slide all over your skin and suddenly, you’re this magical new creature. 

 _Charles_ :

I don’t know how I can possibly add to all that and I’m not sure what you mean by aesthetics? I prefer music and the performing arts; the story is the same but they’re always being reinterpreted. I want to see the human involved. With due respect to Raven and Erik, I don’t see the artist when I look at a painting. I like that human touch, so when it comes to art I like the brush strokes in Van Gogh or Raven’s oil paintings. I want to see the human being in the art.

 

 

> **Anonymous asked:**
> 
> Raven, who do you think will top if your brother ever got it on with your employer?

_Raven_ :

[shrieking laughter] Right!? Oh my God, yeah, that’s an awesome question. I really shouldn’t talk to you about it. Privacy, right? I kind of know some things that make me think it could go either way. (whispering) But, I think Charles will top from the bottom.

 

> **Anonymous asked:**
> 
> have you ever been turned on while getting tattooed?

_Erik_ :

[long, dragging silence] Are you using Cards Against Humanity to come up with these questions?

 

 

> **Anonymous asked:**
> 
> Raven, what is the strangest thing that has ever happened around or involving Erik?

_Raven_ :

Strangest. Hmm. That’s a good question. The lingerie shoot? The freeze-dried cow heart? The flasher? The guy that fainted at the sight of blood? Tattooing attracts a lot of weird stuff.

 _Erik_ :

Maybe the time Jean tried to immolate me with her breasts.

 _Raven_ :

Oh, that was classic. So one of the stars of the burlesque circuit around here is this really gorgeous redhead, Jean Grey. Her stage name is Phoenix because she works with fire. One of her famous tricks is lighting her pasties’ tassels. It’s amazing. Anyway, Erik made a comment about her fiance and her former lover that I won’t repeat that Erik should be ashamed of.

 _Erik_ :

I’m not.

 _Raven_ :

We were at a Burlesque show and Jean had the Fiery Nipples of Death going and, I say it was an accident, one of the flaming pasties came off when she passed Erik in the aisle. It lit his shirt on fire and fell in his lap. He slapped out the fire before the it could spread, but it was still kind of crazy.

 

 

> **turtletotem asked:**
> 
> For Raven and Erik: Under what circumstances would you refuse to tattoo someone?

_Raven and Erik_  (simultaneously): Drunk.

 _Raven_ : (laughing a bit)

Thank you for an awesome question! So, I do walk-ins and that means I get weird situations. Let’s assume our someone has a design that I find totally acceptable; not somebody else’s work, not placed on a problematic body part like mucus membranes, or not something really offensive.

If those conditions are met, I will still refuse to tattoo people that are under the influence of any chemical substances. I don’t work on people who are under the weather or haven’t eaten properly. I refuse people that are rude and disrespectful. And I’m hesitant to work on somebody that’s emotionally compromised; it depends on the person. If it’s a walk-in, no, I won’t do it.

 _Erik_ :

I only work by appointment so I don’t usually have the same kinds of problems Raven does with walk-ins. However, our answers are essentially the same. I’ve had a couple cases of people that traveled here to get work done and showed up drunk. It happens. I still send them away.

Raven forgot age. We’re bound by law not to tattoo young people without parental consent. To make things easier, I just say no to anybody seventeen and younger.

 

 

> **Anonymous asked:**
> 
> dear erik, do you have any suggestion for the person who wants a tattoo and still didn't decide what will get tattooed?

_Erik_ : 

(sighs; a few quiet moment pass before he answers)

That can go a couple ways.

Most artists have ideas even if you don’t. I have designs I want to do but a lack of bodies for them; you could choose one of those. But if you want something personal like what Raven does, you really need to have an idea. Raven usually advises an inspiration board; something you pin with everything you like. That can help consolidate your thoughts on what to get. When you get our ideas narrowed down to only a few elements, you can schedule a consultation with your artist. 

* * *

 

This was the second round where most of the questions went to Raven.

 

> **Anonymous asked:**
> 
> For Raven: is there some kind of tattoo (or body modification in general) you would just refuse doing, if ever asked by a client?

_Raven_ :

(aside to somebody else) We’re more popular than you, Charles!

 _Charles_ :

(in mock hurt) I’m deeply hurt and will never recover.

 _Raven_ :

I answered a question a little bit like this earlier, but you mentioned body mods, you beautiful person you, and that is something I want to talk about!

Generally speaking, tattoo artists and body modification artists are not the same. I don’t do piercings, cuttings, so-called scleral or corneal tattoos, object insertions… wow, that sounds dirty! Use protection, kids! Um, but, yeah I just do tattoos.

That isn’t to say that I won’t work with a body mod artist in collaboration. I’ve done that plenty.

 

> **liuliwuyu asked:**
> 
> Hi Raven, have you thought about combine your training in fine art with your experience as a tattooist? Body paint? Highly conceptual designs?

_Raven_ :

(loudly) Ha haaaaah! This must be what being Prom Queen feels like! And everyone has such good questions. We should do this again. Can we do this again?

Actually, my fine art training is so helpful to tattooing. Good thinking, you. It gave me a base to build on. There’s a lot of stuff you learn in art school and it’s this huge skill set that’s ready to inform everything you do. 

In school we had to do a bit of everything as well as get crushed under insane art history classes. But, yeah, that art history is important, it gives you ideas and examples to draw on. Then you have all the practical classes and those allow you to take a lot of those concepts and make your own take on them. That is, if your prof isn’t crazy or an asshole.. 

My thing lately has been developing watercolor effects on skin. I always hated watercolor in school; it’s so hard to control. But I love the look. A lot of my training prepared me to tackle that problem in skin.

So, the answer to your question is yes. I do it everyday.

 

> **kageillusionz asked:**
> 
> To all three of you, what is the trolliest thing you've ever done? :3

_Raven_ :

This is shitty, but I put Ipecac in somebody’s Cherry Coke back when I was a teen.

 _Erik_ :

Maybe some inflammatory pictures I sent somebody after a consultation.

 _Charles_ :

…Possibly puncturing the soles of someone’s wellies.

 

> **Anonymous asked:**
> 
> So, Raven or Erik, what's the longest, most extensive or frustrating tattoo you guys have ever had to do?

_Raven_ :

I don’t have anything that can compare to Erik’s. He’s got a triptych.

 _Erik_ :

I’m still working on it, or at least waiting to finish it. Doing something like this is kind of a dream you never expect to come true, because people usually have ideas when they come in. However, there are tattoo collectors that are happy to get work that tattoo artists already have designed. I managed to involve three collectors for back pieces. Two pieces are finished.

All three have the same high-contrast black work. By itself the black work is abstract, it could be anything or nothing. However, the other two fill out the negative space in two different ways. One can be interpreted as positive and the other negative, it depends on the viewer.

It’s frustrating because my last guy is on hard financial times so we haven’t been able to complete it. That’s not his fault. Collectively I’ve got almost fifty hours work in those pieces and I have about nine hours left to do. It’s so close, but it’s just out of reach and I don’t know if it ever will be completed.

* * *

 

And this is round three.  

 

> **exiled-one asked:**
> 
> Either for Charles or for Erik - I'm not sure whom to ask this. Is Charles ever going to request another tattoo, something related with his field of research?

_Charles_ :

Lovely question. Excellent question. Erik and I have been discussing a new tattoo to perhaps cover what remains of the tattoo he did without ink. It left some light lines, a few might be there for a long time. But I’m not sure, because those lines are somewhat precious to me.

However, should we do that, I’m not sure if I would have something related to my work or something even meaningful at all. I want my unicorns to be the focal point.

 _Erik_ :

Just let me cover them, Charles.

 

> **Anonymous asked:**
> 
> erik: what was your truthful reaction to when charles showed you that he could crush a walnut with his thighs?

(there is a long pause and muffled sounds of movement)

 _Raven_ : 

Oh my God, Erik’s fucking losing his shit! He’s trying not to laugh, but he has this horrible smile like a Disney villain if a Disney villain could get away with eating small children.

 _Charles_ :

He had a similar reaction that night, but he hates it when I talk about our sex life so I’ll just say it was quite a night!

 

 

> **Anonymous asked:**
> 
> Raven: would you tattoo Hank?

_Raven_ :

Already have. I gave him a rabbit because he was born with a hare lip. I’m going to have Erik do a matching one. Tattooing Hank was really emotional for me and for Hank. He took it like a trooper; I’m the one that cried.

 

> **rozf asked:**
> 
> This question is for everyone: what do you like most about Charles' tattoo?

_Charles_ :

That it’s mine.

 _Raven_ :

That it totally redefined the tattoo I gave Erik. Like, totally changed it and made it deeper and more resonant. I never had an actual meaning in mind for it, just an abstract feeling of rightness? But Erik completed it.

 _Erik_ (sound of a chair creaking) _:_

I guess that I could use it to express myself when I couldn’t make myself say things I wanted to say.

 

> **liuliwuyu asked:**
> 
> This is a question for Erik & Raven. Have either of you lived in/above of the shop? Have you considered putting a living quarter in the shop or just rent next door.

_Raven_ :

Wow, that’s a great question! When I wasn’t using my trust fund, I asked Erik if I could sleep at Quicksilver because I knew he sometimes did. But he never let me; he let me stay at his place until I got the loft with Janos and Sean.

 _Erik_ :

I tried to get the third floor of Quicksilver’s building, but our land lady said it wasn’t zoned for residential use. Most of the buildings in our area are zoned for mixed used, though. It’s possible she just didn’t like me. In the end it was probably for the best; I like the energy it takes to commute.

 

> **turtletotem asked:**
> 
> Tell the truth, Erik, you chose Charles's thigh for the tattoo because it's your favorite of his body parts.

_Erik_ :

It wasn’t my original plan, but a decision we mutually arrived at. I had to change some of the linework to put it there because I originally envisioned it on his side, with the unicorn horn pointing at his heart. But I can’t say that I don’t like it on his thigh.

 _Charles_ :

Stop playing it seriously. Honestly, you have no idea how devoted he is to my thighs.

 _Raven_ : 

Yeah. Walnuts, though.

 

> **blackidyll asked:**
> 
> I get the impression from the mention of Phan Thiet that Erik and Charles have travelled quite a bit together (also Charles possibly visiting Erik when he was going around Europe?). So to both boys - what's your favorite city or place that you've visited together?

_Charles_ :

We haven’t actually gone anywhere together other than Portland. He stays with me in Oxford sometimes and I’ve visited him in France and Turkey. Phan Thiet will be our first holiday together.

 _Erik_ :

It isn’t the best decision, really, considering how pale he is. But he’s done a little preparatory tanning and 50+ SPF isn’t hard to find. Too bad his thigh isn’t getting much of that.

 

> **Anonymous asked:**
> 
> Charles: outside of boxing, what else do you do? also how much can you lift (erik?)?

_Charles_ :

Oh, you mean in my free time? I read, see my therapist, research and write papers, and I’m very active socially. I go to a lot of dinner parties as well as host a few. If you’re asking if I can lift Erik, the answer is yes.

 _Raven_ :

Like, bench press him? Because I can pick him up a couple inches off the ground.

 _Erik_ :

(sighs) I’m too awkward for him to bench, but he can pull off the bridal carry.

 

> **Anonymous asked:**
> 
> This is a question for Erik and Charles. I understand that Erik has been touring the world and Charles has been living in England. How were you able to maintain your relationship? And for Erik, do you want to move in with Charles?

_Charles_ :

Ah, well this is an awkward question, but I’ll do my best to answer. I guess it’s really not unusual for tattoo artists to do these kinds of tours. Erik’s made a year of it. I think it’s been good for us, because we’ve needed to ease into our relationship. The next step, I suppose, is to consider cohabitation, but it’s not an easy topic to broach.

 _Erik_ :

I can’t move into his flat; it’s cramped with clutter he’s going to refuse to part with. If we found a bigger place, something more modern with more windows, maybe we could give it a try. It also depends on whether I want to open a new shop in England or not; Oxford’s real estate prices are prohibitive.

 _Charles_ :

But you can get an excellent loan from the Bank of Xavier. I hear they have excellent rates on business loans; practically zero percent interest!

 _Erik_ :

Maybe. 

 

> **Anonymous asked:**
> 
> Question for Charles: I know this is a difficult subject, but has Erik ever told you how he got hepatitis?

[There’s another long silence, interspersed with a bit of tapping, perhaps Charles is drumming his fingers on his leg.]

 _Charles_ :

This is is off the record, so to speak. I suppose you know he contracted it in prison and you’re now trying to delicately ask if he was the victim of non-consensual sex. As I understand it, he occasionally traded sexual favors for things he couldn’t buy from the prison commissary. But after he made a tattoo machine he didn’t engage in that; there was a market for his tattooing. 

That said, I personally don’t rule it out, but it’s not something he talks about.

 

 

> **mc-meow-avoy-fassbender asked:**
> 
> May I ask tattoo fic Raven a question? If so: you had sex with Charles' boyfriend before he ever did. Is it something that you all can joke about, or is it something never mentioned?

_Raven_ :

(sound of sucking in a long breath of air) Oh wow. Maaan. Okay, you’re being super polite so I’ll go. Well, also I tend to overshare. But it’s like this: we don’t talk about it. Charles doesn’t want to talk about it, Hank doesn’t want to talk about it, and Erik doesn’t want to talk about it, but he actually will. Me? I want to talk about it.

It was a mistake, but it was a mistake between me and Erik. We didn’t do anything wrong. But this whole not talking about it or not joking about it? It makes me feel like I did something wrong and I didn’t! I mean, I fucked him first. I fucked him before I knew Hank very well and before Charles even met Erik. So why am I the one who should be ashamed? Do you know what I mean? If anything, Charles should apologise to me for jumping my admittedly nonexistent claim!

Okay, actually, thank you for asking this question. I didn’t realise how much it was bothering me. I’ll talk to Erik about it. 

And since I can actually say something to  _you_ , Erik had just enough whiskey dick that he could get hard, but not come so we actually had three rounds before he got off. So I came like four times that night. So there!

 

 

> **Anonymous asked:**
> 
> Erik, how much coverage do you want to get now that you've made some peace with your profession?

_Erik_ :

I have a problem with coverage at this point. Coverage is a matter of balance and if you have a lot of graphic tattoos and then big abstract pieces like my trash paint stripes, they fight. My coverage is on the verge of looking pretty bad, so I won’t be getting any major tattoos on my torso. 

But I still want coverage, so I’ve started seeing people for scalpel work. That is, I’ve got some scarification started. If I like the way it heals, I plan to bridge the gap between the dragon and my vertical stripe with patterns. 

 _Charles_ :

He sent me pictures of the fresh skin removal on his arm. Horrible.

 _Erik_ :

I’m thinking about piercings, next. The Torah mentions nose piercings, so maybe a septum because they can flip up discretely. Maybe do my ears right this time.

 

 

> **Anonymous asked:**
> 
> Sorry if this is late but it relates to the last question's answer. Charles, are you or would you be considering getting any piercings?

_Charles_ :

Friend, I hope this doesn’t dissuade you if you are thinking of getting any or disappoint you if you have them, but I just don’t see the appeal. Erik’s mentioned that some piercings enhance sexual pleasure, but I don’t like the way any of those look. So, no, I don’t foresee myself getting any piercings.

 

 

> **Anonymous asked:**
> 
> Hi Charles, Erik and Raven, how is everything going with you guys?

(sounds of laughter from more than one person)

 _Charles_ :

Good, good. Everything is good! I hope you’re well, too.

 _Raven_ : 

I think we’re all good. Hank and I are talking about getting a dog. It’ll be a gigantic test of our relationship. I want a pit bull, but he wants a cocker spaniel. If we can find a mix, we’re go.

 _Erik_ :

I think everything is good. There’s a lot less tension when we’re around each other now. Everything feels brighter in a way. A little chaotic, but freer.

* * *

 

A few things I couldn't find a way to share or were unknown to all the characters:

The only reason Charles went to the convention in Portland was because he was afraid of losing Raven. His pride was too strong to go without an ulterior motive. Therefore, he starts the story off on a somewhat desperate note.

Erik's high school girlfriend, Magda, was a year older than him. She would have kept in contact with Erik throughout his imprisonment, except she was pregnant and couldn't face him after she gave up the child/terminated the pregnancy. (She probably had an abortion, but I don't know enough about Sinti beliefs or customs to say for sure.)

Emma Frost asked to become Erik's counsellor while he was in prison. Her request was highly unorthodox and granted only because she had so many connections via her former prosecuting attorney boyfriend, Sebastian Shaw. She goes on to date Moira, Erik's parole officer. 

Erik really didn't remember meeting Raven in New York, but it was the defining moment of Raven's time at SVU. He feels slightly guilty about it, but Raven doesn't care.

Charles often caused trouble at home specifically to draw attention away from Raven. Raven suspects, but she doesn't know the extent.

Charles and Raven met Cain at Kurt's funeral; they tried to be sympathetic to Cain, but that didn't go over well with Cain who didn't know Kurt well enough to know better. They've never had contact again since.

Erik was in Rikers about ten years and on parole for almost five. Because of all the time Erik spent in solitary, he tends to go for small, enclosed areas when he's extremely agitated and needs to decompress. The backroom, the small bathroom, the shower.

The red ink being tested in the epilogue is called Scarlet Witch. When Erik finally establishes a new shop it will be called Polaris.

[Recipe for boyos](http://www.npr.org/sections/thesalt/2012/12/08/166686060/at-hanukkah-pastry-reminds-portland-jews-of-their-mediterranean-roots) plus a little bit of a history lesson concerning the Rhodesli Sephardic Jews of Portland, OR.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have any questions about the story, feel free to ask. Thanks again for supporting me throughout this fic. 
> 
> And finally, I want to 'gift' this fic to two people:
> 
>   
> [Rumcity](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Rumcity), because it absolutely wouldn't have been written without her.  
> [mixture](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mixture/pseuds/mixture), because of her unending support and hand-holding.


End file.
